


Penance

by QueenForADay



Series: The Wolf and the Shrike [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Assassin Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Cock Warming, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Face Punching, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Little Shit, M/M, Mob Boss Geralt, Mob Boss Vesemir, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Punishment, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Spitroasting, Top Vesemir (The Witcher), Vesemir Has Sex (The Witcher), Vesemir is So Done (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28681569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: It's been a day since The Desk Incident and some punishments are doled out on to Lambert and Jaskier.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Vesemir, Jaskier | Dandelion/Vesemir
Series: The Wolf and the Shrike [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092515
Comments: 80
Kudos: 207





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a long walk. The hallways seem to stretch on for miles. It’s so fucking stupid. This is _his_ house. He’s lived here for years, ever since the grumpy old bastard Vesemir scooped him up off of the streets.

And yet, he can’t help the way his throat starts to bob and tighten with every step he takes, striding towards Geralt’s office.

He’s not afraid of Geralt. Geralt may be his boss, but he’s his brother before all else. A fellow stray that got picked up like the rest of them. Geralt has been a constant fixture in his life for as long as he can remember. And still, his fingers fidget and ball into fists by his side.

He fucked up. Some logical part of him knows that. It’s been telling him that ever since he did it. He didn’t _have_ to do it, but his brother’s songbird made a convincing argument. An argument wholly consisting of one question; _do you want to help me annoy the fuck out of Geralt?_

What else was he supposed to say? No? Fuck that. Annoying Geralt is his favourite thing in the world.

The lines between brother and boss are distinct. Geralt and Eskel and Lambert know the difference between the two and know when both of them are acted on. And this feels like he’s being summoned by his _boss_ , rather than his big brother who’s pissed that he fucked his boyfriend while he was away.

And...yeah, actually, when he thinks of it like that, maybe Geralt might have a point.

He reaches Geralt’s office way too quickly. Eskel was the harbinger of his death sentence. The other man barely stepped into his room to inform him that Geralt wanted a word with him before scampering off. And as soon as the words tumbled out of Eskel’s mouth, he knew _exactly_ what Geralt wanted to talk about.

He isn’t afraid of his brother. He’s a little bit afraid of his boss; but who isn’t? Geralt’s shadow is an overbearing and dark one, cast over everything these days. Sometimes Lambert only has to mention Geralt’s name to get whatever he wants, or for people to leave him the fuck alone.

He takes a measured breath, regardless. Knocking on the dark wooden door is normal. There are ways to things within the household. And he’s often waited outside of this office, even in the days of Vesemir. Usually it was when he was barely old enough to know the full extent of their work here; when his cheeks were still round with baby fat, his front tooth was missing, and his knees were scraped from fighting with the other boys. And even as an adult, standing out in the hallway makes him shift his weight a bit. He expects Vesemir’s booming voice to thunder out through the door. But Geralt’s comes instead. It’s measured and quiet, and almost doesn’t quite make it out into the hallway at all.

“Come in.”

Lambert sucks in a harsh and steady breath. It could very well be his last.

It’s stupid. He knows this office. He’s been in and out of it since he was a pup barely higher than Vesemir’s waist. He could draw the place from memory. But stepping into it now, he almost suffocates on the air inside. It’s thick and heavy with tension, even though across the room, it’s only Geralt sitting at his desk, scrawling something over the last of the reports for the day. His attention is wholly focused on that, and not Lambert slowly slinking into the room.

And he doesn’t know what is worse; having Geralt ignore him and go about his business for the day, or glare at him the second he stepped inside his office. Both are unbearable.

He stands to attention just in front of Geralt’s desk. The heavy wood standing between them as its own personality. There was a time when Lambert couldn’t even look over this thing, when he was a pup under Vesemir who liked to hang out in the office with the elder if he had just stumbled away from a fight.

And now his oldest brother is sitting there, looking as imposing as their mentor ever did.

His tongue sits heavily in his mouth, words trying to clamber up his throat and sticking. Somehow he manages, pushing the words out. And they sound louder than they need to, against the silence already sitting within the room. “Eskel said that you wanted to talk to me,” he says. It’s not a question. Geralt knows. Lambert knows. But a silence stretches out between them. Lambert’s brows knit. His mouth opens again, but Geralt holds up his index finger.

 _Wait_.

A frown settles into Lambert’s brow. What he wants to say sits behind clenched teeth. He’s already in trouble. And asking Geralt what the fuck he wants probably won’t sit well with the other man. So Lambert swallows his words and stays stock-still in front of the desk, letting his hands join in front of him.

Geralt finishes writing whatever it is that holds his attention. With a scrawl at the end – his own signature – he quietly puts his pen and paper away, stacking everything neatly on the desk. It was how Vesemir kept it; mostly clear with only his essential documents an arm’s reach away to run his eyes over and check. Otherwise, the wood was always kept varnished and immaculately clean.

Geralt stands from his desk, clearing his throat as he sets his pen down and his reports away; making sure that everything is lined up neatly and out of the way of his main work area. His face is entirely expressionless as he slowly prowls around the desk.

When he stands in front of Lambert, Lambert tenses. He can’t help it. His brother Geralt isn’t here, but the head of their household – a man he has royally pissed off, and Lambert can actually see the intent of murder settling behind his eyes. All Lambert can do is admit that maybe he has actually fucked up, but at least his last few days in this world were fun.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Lambert blinks. Geralt’s words are so quiet, he struggles to even hear them. Golden eyes glare into his and Lambert has to root his feet into the ground to stop himself from shrinking back from them. Gods, it’s like having Vesemir here. “Uh,” he rasps, “what do you mean?”

The arch of Geralt’s lip lifts. “Don’t play dumb with me, you prick.”

He won’t repeat himself. Lambert knows that. So he nods. Because if he’s going to be murdered and meet the gods today, he might as well clear his conscious and tell the truth.

Geralt nods slowly, thinning his lips and mulling over what Lambert hasn’t quite said, but it’s abundantly clear. For a moment, there’s just silence. The air between them starts to thicken and Lambert almost chokes on it. Then Geralt hums, pushing away from his desk and turning his back to Lambert, shuffling with some reports and papers on his desk.

A moment drags on for a bit, and Lambert has to clear his throat again. “Anything else, boss?”

When he turns around, Geralt’s face is perfectly vacant for a moment. Something swirls behind his eyes, thoughts and considerations. He is truly done with Lambert and could he dismiss him, or is there something else.

And Lambert watches, because he has a feeling that there _could_ be something else. He braces himself.

Even then, with his feet rooted to the ground and his body tensed up, waiting for what else Geralt could inflict on to him, he’s always caught off guard with how quickly Geralt can move. Before he really knows what’s happening, his head is snapped to the side, and his whole face is numb for a moment. And then the pain comes.

* * *

Eskel sighs; something long, drawn-out, and ever-suffering. “You brought this on yourself,” he says, helping press an icepack and a bloodied rag firmer against Lambert’s recently reset nose.

They’ve all become experts in how to fix all sorts of things; bruises and cuts and scrapes, to dislocated and potentially broken bones. Lambert is exceptionally talented in earning broken noses. It’s a surprise that it doesn’t show more. There’s a slight nook along the bridge of his nose, indicating that it may have been broken and shoddily reset before, but Eskel has kept the tally.

Lambert groans. The tally may be nearing double digits, but it doesn’t stop it from hurting any less. “Fuck off,” he grouses, swatting the other man away and holding the bag to his face himself. His fingers are pink with dried and fading blood, and he managed to wash most of it off. And that’s how Eskel found him, bowed over the kitchen sink with bloodied tissues everywhere.

There’s always icepacks kept in the freezer nearby, just in case.

All he can do is keep Lambert sitting at the kitchen table, prepared to shove his head between his knees if he starts feeling dizzy. But he’s watched the man lose blood before and still be able to shoot with a deadly efficient aim. He won’t worry over a maimed nose.

“It’s not my fault,” Lambert mumbles, trying to tilt his head back.

A growl works its way up Eskel’s throat. He lurches out and sets Lambert’s head forward. The last thing he needs is his younger brother choking on his own blood. Lambert swats at him again, trying to push him away, but Eskel roots his feet into the ground, unmoving. He threads his fingers through the wild red curls of Lambert’s hair, pushing them back from his face to inspect the worst of the damage. Lambert reset his nose himself, and it’s swollen and a deep bruise is starting to worm and set under his right eye, but it doesn’t look too bad.

Geralt has a good aim and a strong arm. The fact that he didn’t wipe Lambert’s nose clean off of his face – or part the man with anything else on his body – is a gods-given miracle. He might be furious, stewing and glowering alone in his office and snarling at anyone who approaches him too quickly, but underneath it all, he must have recognised that this prick is still his brother.

And if he killed him, Vesemir wouldn’t have been happy.

Eskel watches the man spit out another glob of blood from his mouth. He’s done this often enough to know when to hand Lambert a plastic bag. His only hope is that he won’t be a dickhead and actually vomit _into_ the bag, and not on Eskel’s new shoes. “Did Jaskier drag you there against your will?” he rumbles, already knowing the answer.

He just needs to hear Lambert say it. And the other man glances up at him, only to avert his gaze a second later.

“No,” Eskel says firmly. “He didn’t. You wouldn’t be in this mess if you were thinking with your brain for once, rather than your dick.”

Lambert balks as much as he can with a numb face. “You fucked him too, asshole.”

“I got permission,” Eskel retorts, one step away from fishing his phone out of his pocket and holding it up to the other man. “Geralt doesn’t give a fuck that you railed his little bird. I suspect he’d be all for it. And Jaskier can do whatever the fuck he likes because Geralt is too smitten with him to say otherwise. But you did it behind his back and when he wasn’t here.”

 _That_ seems to be the problem. “Gods alive, he’s one step away from being a fucking dictator,” Lambert grumbles, trying to tilt his head back again but Eskel gets there first; knotting his fingers through Lambert’s hair and shoving his head forward.

He kicks the plastic bag closer to the man. “Spit into that if there’s blood in your mouth.”

They wait until the blood stops. With how often his nose gets broken, because apparently Lambert just can’t learn his lesson, or refuses to, they know the drill. The blood will stop trickling out within a few minutes, they just have to wait. They can’t do anything else until it stops. And there are more icepacks in the freezer.

Eskel leans over to the kitchen counter, grabbing a new, dry, and clean rag. He replaces the one Lambert has pressed to his nose. His brother might be an idiot, trying to dig himself his own early grave, but he’s his brother. The youngest among them who’s a spitfire and runs through the boroughs without a care in the world, because nothing was ever expected of him. Geralt was Vesemir’s intended replacement, and Eskel would be his right-hand and commander. Vesemir gave Lambert all the attention he needed, but no expectations ever landed on his shoulders.

Eskel sighs. “Don’t bleed on to the floor,” he mutters, leaving Lambert to it. This has happened so much that he knows what to do by himself.

* * *

Geralt has been home for almost a day and Jaskier hasn’t even seen a shadow of him. He knows the other man is here. When Geralt is within the house, the wolves are somehow a bit more lax, knowing that their leader is here and prowling. They only get twitchy and nervous when he’s away.

He knows Geralt is back because he saw Lambert’s nose, definitely more crooked and black and blue than he last saw it. Jaskier quickly takes stock of Lambert’s limbs. Two arms and two legs, with all of his toes and fingers. And he’s walking too well for Geralt to have cut off his cock, which if Jaskier was going to be completely honest, the thought crossed his mind.

If the other man managed to walk away with just a broken nose, then Jaskier thinks everything could be alright. Though, he was the one who lured the wolf into the leader’s den. He held Geralt’s eye through the camera as Lambert fucked him over _his_ desk. He isn’t afraid of Geralt. Not at all. Even on that first night, the shrike had no problem fluttering into the den of a wolf pack, perching himself on the leader’s lap, and making demands of him.

Geralt looks at him too fondly for Jaskier to ever be afraid of him. In their bed, when they’re both sweaty and sated and curled around each other, Jaskier looks into the man’s golden eyes and finds nothing but worship and reverence. Jaskier has that effect over most people he’s crossed within the years, but it seems to have settled and roosted quite well in Geralt.

That’s not to say that when he does eventually cross paths with the other man, he doesn’t stop in his tracks.

The house is kept mostly as a normal house, with the exception of the office further inside. The living room is still as it was when Vesemir bought the house all those years ago; a grand granite fireplace, bookshelves stacked with worn leather tomes from classical literature to history to some biology books Coën picked up once because he garnered an interest in it.

And Geralt’s usual chair in front of the fire hasn’t moved since Jaskier roosted within the house. It’s older than the rest of the furniture; plush fabric couches and armchairs scattered throughout the room, gathered either in front of the fire or the TV nearby. But this chair’s leather is warning and crinkling.

Geralt sits in it now, a glass of something dark and amber nestled in one hand while the other rests on the arm of the chair. Jaskier stalks into the room. Geralt knows he’s there. He’s always been very tuned with where Jaskier is and where in the shadows he tries to keep himself. He doesn’t even turn his eyes away from the lit and roaring hearth when Jaskier comes around to face him, one hand reaching out to dust Geralt’s arm.

His day-armour is gone. A fitted blazer that is already neatly set back into his wardrobe, and the first few buttons of his crisp white shirt are undone. He slouches into the couch, the effects of his work slowly beginning to weigh him down. His sleeves are rolled up as far as his elbows, and Jaskier’s fingers brush against Geralt’s forearms, waiting for the usual shiver to tremble through the other man.

It doesn’t. Instead, two familiar golden eyes flicker up at catch Jaskier’s. His expression is completely unreadable. And Jaskier has always been exceptional at knowing what blinks through Geralt’s mind because some of it leaks through on to his face. He’s good at reading the other man, knowing when to take his cue and lull whatever he wants for him.

Now, though, he’s staring down a brick and mortar wall.

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “You’re still angry with me then?” he sighs, letting his hip cock to the side and his arms fold over his chest. Geralt’s eyes hold his, even when Jaskier looks away. He glances to the door, shut behind him because he suspects Geralt won’t want to be bothered. “I saw that Lambert got his punishment.” Jaskier turns back to the man, letting his head tilt and the stretch of his neck show. His lips are loose and curled into a shadow of a smile. “Am I going to get mine?”

For all the shit he’s pulled with Geralt, this might be the thing that actually gets him killed. He’s spent too long poking at a wolf, watching his lip curl and teeth bare, it was only a matter of time before he got bit and mauled.

Geralt is a quiet one. He’s quiet in his anger too. Jaskier can see it burning within his eyes and tightening his jaw. But he’s quiet and his movements are slow. Geralt taps one of his legs. Jaskier’s usual perch.

Jaskier looks to it. His usual plan of perching on his wolf’s lap and nuzzling into him might now work this time. Though, Jaskier steps forward, sitting on to the familiar place and setting a hand on to Geralt’s chest. He can’t seem to budge the ghost of a smile shadowing his lips. “What is it, then?” he lulls, fingers catching and pulling at the lapels of Geralt’s shirt, revealing more of the man’s chest underneath. “A firm scolding? A spanking? Or am I going to find myself with my throat cut at the bottom of a ravine?”

Any one of them is a contender, including the real threat of him losing body parts. Geralt might be gentle and kind with him, eyes full of worship and reverence, but the cardinal rule of the house is that Geralt is in charge; and Jaskier threw that rule out the window.

Geralt watches him for a moment. When he does speak, his words are almost murmured and measured. “What did you think was going to happen?”

Jaskier lets his gaze drifts. He slips a hand past the collar of Geralt’s shirt, letting his hand map out the firm expanse of chest underneath. But the man snatches his wrist and pulls it away, keeping it firmly pinned by Jaskier’s own waist. Geralt’s grip is firm, just tight enough for Jaskier not to be able to move his wrist at all and try and break free from it. He can feel the tension already starting to bloom marks.

Jaskier looks back up, holding the golden eyes trying to burn straight through him. He lifts a shoulder. “Maybe I crossed a line,” he says, reaching up with his other hand and catching Geralt’s chin in between his finger and thumb. Not that the man would try and look anywhere else. Jaskier leans down, dusting his words over Geralt’s lips just millimetres away. “But you, my love, we’re paying attention.”

“I pay plenty of attention,” Geralt rumbles, making no move to break free of Jaskier’s hold on him or his hold on the bird perched on his lap. “Can you honestly tell me that I don’t give you whatever you want? Not even just the gold and everything you could ask for.”

He knows what Geralt is talking about. Jaskier hums. “I’m a jealous sort, darling,” Jaskier lilts, leaning further down and ghosting his lips over Geralt’s. “It’s only fair in our lines of work to fight fire with fire.”

The barest crack in Geralt’s resolve forms. A small twitch to the corner of his mouth. Something that would be a smirk if Geralt didn’t school it straight off.

Geralt releases his wrist, but the hand goes straight to his neck. His hand is huge, easily fitting over the stretch of his neck and resting just below his jaw and chin. Jaskier swallows, feeling the man’s fingers press into the side of his neck. Geralt tilts his head slightly, letting the warm glow of the hearth’s fire wash over him, examining and mulling over something behind his eyes. The wolf’s words rumble out of him. “What am I going to do with you, hmm?”

Nothing. Jaskier delights in too many things for him ever to be truly scolded. And if he even tried, one alluring look from his little lark has it all dissolving away. All Jaskier can do is offer him a small smile and manage to get words out from the hand around his throat. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

* * *

He’s been the head of his house for a few years now, and all of the fears he might have had as a young pup have long since been wrung out of him. He isn’t as shy as he once was, not even garnering enough courage to look people in the eye or to not flinch any time they spoke to him. He was practically mute until he was ten, when the first words rasped out of him to the Old Wolf, and he told him his name.

And even still, all these years later, nothing manages to instil as much fear into the core of his heart than the announcement that Vesemir is on his way to the house.

Lambert pushes himself away from the kitchen table and is out the backdoor of the house quicker than anyone can blink, vaulting over their neighbours’ fences until he can reach the streets outside and make a run for it.

Eskel stays wide-eyed, staring at the messenger who’s brought the news. He manages to stammer out a few words, but all through a tightening throat. “Why? What does he want? Wh— _Why_?”

Coën shoves his phone back into his pocket. “Because he told me to call him if any one of you tried to start killing one of the others,” he says firmly, glancing to Geralt. “Regardless of rank.”

Geralt is frozen. He might actually be stuck in time, unable to even blink. Any cereal gathered on to his spoon drops back into his bowl as his hand is paused mid-air. Jaskier slowly reaches up, helping him lower it back against the bowl’s rim. It’s one of the few touches they’ve shared since Geralt got back from Toussaint and while it usually would bloom heat back into him, his blood freezes in his veins.

He may be the head of the household now, but it was a title gifted to him by Vesemir; when the Old Wolf just had enough with the boroughs and all of the business associated with them and left. And like with all things, the position Geralt has was a gift from Vesemir. Vesemir has gifted him a lot of things within his life – all things he could very easily take away. If he were to come back and announce we would like to stay around, Geralt’s title is snatched out from underneath him and he’ll find himself tumbling back down into the role of a commander.

It takes an hour for Vesemir to arrive. It’s quite possibly the longest hour of Geralt’s life. His eyes kept being drawn to the front door of the house, and every time it clicked open, his heart stuttered and stopped within his chest until some low-level wolf pup padded up the hall instead.

Coën doesn’t even need to tell them when Vesemir has arrived. Geralt can hear them from the living room, by the front door and talking quietly among themselves. And it’s a struggle to hear whatever it is that Vesemir says. Then there are footsteps, and Geralt’s heart beats so quickly that it might just break out through his chest and splatter on to the floor.

Eskel looks to the staircase outside, wondering if it’s too late to make a run for it and hide in his room like a frightened pup.

The only thing that cracks through the tensing silence is a sharp chuckle from Jaskier, sprawled over his usual chair beside the fire, shoes kicked off and legs resting over the arm. He pours over a book, idly flicking to the next page. “I would hate to be you guys right now,” he giggles to himself, ignoring the brief stares he gets off of the two of them.

When the Old Wolf steps into the living room, every ounce of air leaves his lungs. Vesemir regards each of his pups for a moment. Illuminated by the warm glow of the fire, and seeing him against the backdrop of what used to be his old house, it's strange and it hurtles Geralt back years to when they all used to live here together.

Before he can crack open his mouth, to greet or to ask why is the Old Wolf even here, Vesemir lurches out. He’s quick, for an old bastard with grey hair and wrinkles settling into his face, and Geralt can’t move out of the way fast enough. Vesemir grabs his ear, fingers almost pinching as his legs crumble underneath him. He snatches Eskel’s with the other, quick to turn on his heel and drag them out into the hallway.

He doesn’t even have to order them to come. They stumble alongside him without question. And Jaskier watches over the head of his book, wondering for the first time in possibly his entire life, if he actually has finally crossed the line.

* * *

Aiden brings Lambert to the house. To be more specific, because it took Geralt a moment to follow what Coën was saying when he shoved a stumbling Lambert into the office, Aiden drove Lambert back to the house, wrists tied together and bound to his chest, and bound ankles so he couldn’t get up and run away again. He dumped the Red Wolf’s body on to the curb outside the house, cackling within his car at the very choice words Lambert had to say about the whole situation.

He’s gotten his ankles back, at least. Geralt suspects that trying to get a practically hogtied Lambert through the narrow hallways of the house would have been too difficult if he didn’t have his legs. But Geralt looks at the black cotton rope binding his hands and pinning them to his chest. He watches Lambert snap at Coën when Vesemir invites him in to cut him loose.

“Don’t fucking cut it,” Lambert growls at the man coming at him with a pair of scissors. Coën ignores him completely. “For fuck sake. That’s expensive shit. You owe me and Aiden some rope, dickhead.”

“Enough.”

Within seconds, Lambert’s expression drops into something neutral. His eyes lower to the ground. Vesemir glowers at him, holding his stare at the youngest pup for a moment before Coën steps away from him. Vesemir’s expression softens slightly. “Thank you, Coën. Could you guard the door?”

He doesn’t need to. No one will even think of venturing this far into the house knowing that the Old Wolf is here. But Coën still nods and inclines his head in a small bow, slinking out of the room.

The second the door clicks shut behind him, Geralt winces. The air is thick with tension. It’s almost suffocating. Even the sound of Lambert rubbing at his wrists is too loud and grates against his ears.

He shifts his weight, wincing at how the floorboards creak underneath his feet. Vesemir regards each of the pups gathered in front of him with an expressionless face. Everything Geralt needs to know is within the man’s eyes. The gold has turned somewhat red.

“Now,” Vesemir says slowly, perched back behind his desk and setting his clasped hands on it as if he never left, “I want one of you to explain to me why I got a phone call from Coën this morning about some skirmish breaking out among you.”

And they might not be related to each other at all, but the three of them _are_ brothers in other senses of the word, so Vesemir is almost assaulted by three different accounts of events overlapping and trying to smother the others almost immediately.

The arch of his lip lifts in a snarl, and each pup snaps their jaws shut. Vesemir’s eyes land on Eskel, standing in the middle of the three of them, and the one pointedly keeping his eyes on the ground and fidgeting his hands by his side. But the only one of Vesemir’s boys that can manage to keep a level head. “Eskel,” Vesemir glowers, “explain.”

Eskel takes as much of a measured breath as he can before words stammer out. “Geralt, uh, Geralt went away for a few days. To Toussaint. To a meeting. With, uh, with Anna Henrietta and her household. And, um, Lambert,” Eskel doesn’t quite look at either of his brothers standing on each side of him, but it doesn’t stop him from squirming, “Lambert broke into the office while he was gone, and—”

“-Okay, firstly, Geralt’s fucking pigeon broke in, not me,” Lambert snaps, turning to face Eskel and prod his finger into the man’s shoulder, “so stop trying to throw me under the bus. You fucked him too—”

“—Geralt gave me _permission_ , you idiot,” Eskel growls, hand slipping into his pocket to fish out his phone with the text from the other man still very much still on it. “And stop trying to blame anyone else. You know the rules—”

Vesemir’s eyes drift to Geralt’s, holding his gaze for a moment before quirking a greying eyebrow. A growl rips through Geralt’s throat. “ _Shut the fuck up_ ,” Geralt snarls, turning to his brothers, “both of you.”

“Pigeon?” Vesemir thins his lips. “Is this that little bird of yours I’ve heard so much about?”

Geralt nods. “Yes, sir.”

The Old Wolf turns to Geralt. “This bird of yours,” he says slowly, “what did he do to cause this much warfare among my boys?”

Geralt wets his lips, taking a moment to gather his words. “He,” Geralt rasps, clearing his throat to fight through the words. Because how does he even begin to explain what he saw. His eyes don’t even want to leave Vesemir’s as he thinks about the desk and what happened on top of it. _Just say it. He’s heard worse._ Geralt swallows. “Lambert and Jaskier were, uh, fucking, on the desk,” he pushes out, “while I was gone. There’s footage.”

Vesemir blinks at the last bit. A small frown knots his brows together. Suddenly, Vesemir stretches out his hand.

Geralt stares at it for a moment before he gathers what the man actually wants. He fumbles with his pocket, fishing his phone out and handing it to Vesemir with the security file already loaded. By his side, Eskel’s head hangs so he can focus his eyes on the grain of the wood. Lambert, even further away, fumbles and fidgets his hands by his side, his face suddenly colouring with warmth.

Geralt thanks every god he can remember the name of that there’s no sound. He doesn’t think he could cope if he had to listen to it at all, let alone again. But knowing that the Old Wolf is watching what he’s watching, Geralt can feel heat settling on his cheeks.

Vesemir regards the phone for a moment. “Twenty-one minutes,” he muses, glancing up at his youngest pup. “Start to finish?”

He doesn’t miss the way the colour of Lambert’s cheeks darkens. He clears his throat. “Yes, sir.”

Vesemir hums, handing Geralt’s phone back to him. Vesemir sighs. Something long-suffering and tired. He’s dealt with a lot of their shit in the past. It was one of the contributing factors to Vesemir packing up what he could and disappearing into the horizon. He never thought he would have to be brought back, thinking that maybe his pups could look after themselves for once.

It seems not.

Vesemir muses for a moment, nodding and looking down at his hands. His knuckles are white, just from holding his hands together. If they were pups, gods only know what the old bastard would have done. He’s thrown underlings into the nearest river for just annoying him or bringing him bad news. But now, Geralt can’t help but shrink into himself.

Vesemir hums. He turns to Lambert, fiery gaze firmly fixed on the youngest wolf. “I can see Geralt has already gotten to you,” he says. The bruising has only gotten worse. Most of the middle of Lambert’s face is black and blue, with his nose still swollen. A black eye is even starting to set in from how hard the eldest punched him. Vesemir continues. “But you’ve gone against a rule of the house, boy, and I won’t let that stand. If you insist on thinking more with your cock than your brain, I’m sure your Cat friend and I will come up with a suitable punishment.”

Lambert’s face drains of colour and his mouth drops open, something trying to wrangle out from his throat to plead and to fight back. But Vesemir lifts a hand. _Silence_. The matter is done. There’s nothing more to say on it.

And Vesemir turns his attention to Geralt. “This little bird of yours,” he rumbles, “where is he?”

Geralt pauses. “In the living room, I think,” he replies quietly. He doesn’t even chance looking back at the door behind them. “Will...Will I get him for you?”

Gods alive, forget what kind of punishment Geralt could think of for his little bird. If Vesemir gets his teeth around the lark’s neck—

But Vesemir shakes his head. “No, no,” he murmurs, as quiet as anything. And Geralt has to strain his ears to try and listen to the man. He can have his voice shake the rafters and foundations of the house, but also speak so quietly that it’s a struggle to hear him. Vesemir smiles; something that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “When was the last time we had dinner together, lad?”

At that, Geralt blinks.

“Dinner,” Vesemir repeats, and he’s often not in favour of doing so. “We haven’t had a meal together for a while, I think. Why don’t you and your little bird come to my house for dinner?”

Words still evade Geralt. He can’t help the small tilt in his head. He doesn’t quite understand what it is Vesemir is saying. Because he doesn’t just change subjects like this—

Vesemir stands from the desk, trailing his fingers along the varnished wood as he walks around it. He casts a quick look to Lambert out of the corner of his eye, regarding him for a second before standing in front of Geralt. He sets a firm, familiar hand on to Geralt’s shoulder. Even though he grew taller than his mentor, Vesemir can still reduce him to being a small shy pup again within seconds.

Vesemir lowers his voice, making sure that his pup is paying attention. “Every minute of that video is a day,” he rumbles, “so twenty-one minutes is...”

Geralt takes a second to think. “Three weeks.”

“Good.” Vesemir claps Geralt’s shoulder. “You keep that little bird in its cage, do you hear me? Come to my house in three weeks time and we’ll have dinner together. And bring the bird.”

Geralt swallows and nods. Vesemir pats his cheek and moves away, bringing most of the tension within the room with him. Eskel glances to them out of the corner of his eye, arching an eyebrow.

Vesemir walks towards the door, taking in the last little things of the room before he goes. It hasn’t changed a lot since he left, with most of his things still set in their usual places. Geralt doesn’t turn to watch him go, and he doesn’t move from his post. None of the pups do; waiting until Vesemir leaves first to even breathe.

But Vesemir pauses by the door, and the click of his fingers snaps through the room. “Oh, Geralt?”

Geralt glances over his shoulder, looking to the other man. “Yes, sir?”

“Make sure that the bird is kept to heel for the next three weeks, understood?” Vesemir asks tightly, looking to Geralt to see if he’s gotten the message.

And he can feel a warm colour flooding back to his face. Through the lump in his throat, he manages to croak out, “yes, sir.”


	2. Chapter 2

Aiden laughed when he first saw Lambert stumble into his apartment with a broken nose, gifted to him by his eldest brother. Lambert glowered and didn’t talk to him for _at least_ an hour, but did accept a fresh icepack when his nose started to throb again. Aiden can be as sweet as sugar when he wants to be, but gods alive does he like to watch the consequences of Lambert’s actions catch up with him.

Maybe it was a one-time thing. As soon as Lambert set his nose back into place and plugged it with tissues, he swore, wholeheartedly, that he would try and be a better person who only fucked up once a month instead of whatever his track record is now.

But it wasn’t a one-time thing. Lambert knows it isn’t the second he steps into Aiden’s apartment and the man is standing in the hallway, wearing a broad grin on his lips that Lambert finds mildly alarming. He lets the door click shut behind him, utterly frozen to the spot. He knows that smile. Aiden gets a certain glint in his eye and a smile curled over his lips when he’s delighting in something.

Aiden stretches out a hand. “Come,” he says simply, threading his fingers through Lambert’s as he leads them into his bedroom. Lambert blinks. Aiden started out as a quick, mutual fuck in one of the private rooms of Flora’s, when he caught the other man’s eye over the bar. Aiden started out like all the rest of Lambert’s conquests. A simple call away for a sure and quick fuck, and nothing more than that. And then Lambert found himself wondering about Aiden quite a lot; what would the other man be up to at certain points in the day, if his day was going as shittily as Lambert’s, or even if he could sleep through a thunderstorm had rolled in from the nearby mountains, because Aiden told him once that he wasn’t overly fond of the noise.

The rest of Lambert’s contacts were cut off on that night. He messaged them all one last time to ask them to delete his number and never speak to him again. Aiden might as well have branded him as his on that night, because Lambert tumbled down into a pit of feelings that he couldn’t clamber out of. And fine, a few little birds may have flown his way, and both he and Aiden agreed that as long as they were committed to each other in other regards, they could do whatever they liked. He knows Aiden fell into the beds of other Cats if the opportunity ever propped up. But as long as it’s them at the end of the night, who cares? Not them.

He knows the whole outline of Aiden’s apartment – gifted to him by his brother, in an indirect sort of way. Geralt doesn’t know too many names of people far down on the list of those under his employ, and Aiden makes sure to keep himself in the shadows as much as he can. A former Cat now stalking for a Wolf wouldn’t be taken well by anyone. A job well done for keeping a few wolf dens safe was this apartment, and Lambert has spent an unmentionable amount of time in it with the other man.

And he knows Aiden’s bedroom from all the nights he’s been splayed out on the man’s bed, either lain under him or with Aiden perched on his hips and rolling down on to him. Just by being led inside, Lambert feels his skin prickling.

Aiden’s grin doesn’t budge from his lips, even when he leads Lambert to the foot of his bed and nods at the other man to look at what’s sitting in the middle of it. A box neatly wrapped in gift paper and bound with ribbon. Lambert arches an eyebrow. It’s not his birthday. He’s pretty sure it’s not Aiden’s either – the other man didn’t mention anything about it. Would he say anything about it? They’ve only been exclusive for a few weeks. Surely he wouldn’t have been expecting birthday presents. _Oh gods, what if it_ is _his birthday and—_

He looks over at the man. “The fuck is this?”

Aiden’s eyes practically glisten. “Open it,” he says, nodding to the box.

It’s not a cursed thing. It’s a fucking gift-wrapped box sitting in the middle of Aiden’s bed, almost lost among the neatly folded sheets. Lambert picks it up, listening to the small rattle it makes. There’s no note. Nothing to say who it’s from or who it’s for. Lambert’s fingers are as nimble as they can be as he pulls apart the silk bow.

He barely blinks at the feeling of familiar strong arms beginning to coil around his waist. “It’s a gift,” Aiden says, perching his chin on Lambert’s shoulder. “Vesemir got it for you. Or for me. I guess it’s _for_ you, but the gift is certainly for me.”

Lambert’s fingers still as they try and ply the ribbon from the box. _Vesemir_. The old bastard isn’t even in the borough and he has Lambert’s blood freezing within his veins. Aiden moulds to his back, slotting his hips against the swell of Lambert’s ass, and it’s only then does Lambert feel a familiar hardness pressing against him.

His fingers nimbly pull at the ribbon. The wrapping paper dissolves in his hands as he tears it open, and at the sight of his apparent gift, Lambert blinks. He casts a quick glance to Aiden out of the corner of his eye, arching an eyebrow. “Are you fucking serious?”

Aiden’s smile doesn’t budge. But his eyes glint and he sets his lips against the shell of Lambert’s ear. “He told me that you needed to be kept to heel,” he murmurs, a smirk growing as a shiver shakes through Lambert’s whole body.

He stays well out of Wolf business. Keeping himself to the outskirts of Geralt’s house and what they do is more self-preservation than anything else. Even having Lambert in his bed most nights, Aiden stays well out of his house’s business – commercial and personal. Though he couldn’t help but take the Old Wolf up on his offer.

Aiden’s smile only grows as he recounts the phone call. Vesemir was _incredibly_ convincing. “He deferred to me for the size, of course. Wouldn’t want you being too uncomfortable. But I don’t think he would have even minded, after everything you and that dick of yours have been up to. I’m surprised Geralt even let you keep it.”

Lambert just stares at what’s within the box. It’s a cage. A titanium cock cage, wrapped up like a fucking _Christmas present_. A present left to him – or his lover, he should say – by the Old Wolf. And Lambert’s core is curling and he can feel warmth starting to settle on to his cheeks, but he doesn’t know what about.

The idea of his lover and the Old Wolf conspiring over a phone call, the fact that Vesemir would have had to buy it out of his own gold, Lambert almost chokes on his own breath.

Aiden’s arms coil around him as he presses along the line of Lambert’s back, kept close and moulding along the long line of him. “I’ve been given strict instruction,” Aiden lulls, reaching out and plucking the cage from the box. Lambert swallows thickly, just as a thrum of pleasure worms through him. “Unlike you, darling, I _can_ do what I’m told. And your Old Wolf was _very_ specific in what your punishment would be.”

Vesemir is untouchable. A shadow that has slunk back to dwell in the outskirts of the boroughs, far away from the reach of anyone else. And Lambert might chuff and glower at his older brother with all the cockiness only a young wolf might have, but he would never bare his teeth or raise his lip to Vesemir. He used to, when he was younger and angry and stupid. But not now.

All he can do is lean back against the sturdy and sure weight behind him and breathe out.

* * *

It lingers in the back of his mind: Geralt hasn’t quite told him what his punishment is yet. He suspected that it’s because Geralt doesn’t quite know what it is. And Jaskier doesn’t know if the other man taking a few days to mull it over should worry him or not. Others might worry. Geralt is stoic and silent and can stare people down until they start to crumble and scramble away from him. But Jaskier doesn’t. Even in his worst humours, Jaskier can always gentle Geralt’s teeth and smoothen down his hackles with a few well places touches and words.

He doesn’t lose any sleep over it. Whatever Geralt thinks of he’ll surely worm himself out of. Geralt is awfully fond of him and doesn’t tend to stay mad for too long, especially when Jaskier just as to look or smile at him in a certain way and all is forgiven and forgotten.

Jaskier is always slow to wake up. He’s normally greeted by morning light stretching into the room through the small gaps in the curtains, beams of light crawling over the floorboards and reaching for the foot of the bed.

He’s usually alone when he wakes up in the mornings, or late afternoons if he’s feeling particularly lazy and languid and worn out. He’s grown used to it, even though he hates it – Geralt is busy and people pull at him, but it’s to Jaskier that he returns to, so there’s some solace in that, he guesses. Still, it’s not entirely pleasant; to stretch his arm out over the mattress and sheets and feel nothing but a cold emptiness.

There have only been a handful of occasions where he has woken up with Geralt still in bed with him. His eyes aren’t even fully open before he notices that this is one of those rare days; where he can feel the long, firm warm line of Geralt pressed against him, familiar strong arms curled around him and keeping him close. A smile already stretches across Jaskier’s lips before he can even fully clamber awake. His White Wolf may glower and snarl at anyone else in the boroughs, but only Jaskier knows how soft and gentle he becomes when they’re alone and dozing.

Jaskier stretches, wincing slightly at the groan of muscles and click of joints. “Hmm,” he mumbles against his arm pillowed underneath him, shuffling back just enough to mould himself against Geralt’s chest. “This is a nice surprise.”

Geralt’s nose and mouth are set to his nape. A deep hum rumbles out of the core of his chest. Jaskier doesn’t even need to look over his shoulder to know that the other man’s eyes are still closed; that he’s wading out of sleep slowly, content just to linger in it for a few more minutes.

He isn’t whisked away every morning. Jaskier has woken to muscular and familiar arms wrapped around him, keeping him bundled close to Geralt’s chest before. And he lounges in it. But with all that’s happened over the last few days, he didn’t expect it. He does relax back into the hold though. It’s nice and warm and it just about lures Jaskier back down into sleep, until he feels the familiar hardness of Geralt’s cock resting against the cleft of his ass.

Jaskier sighs into his arm, rocking his hips back. The arm slung around his waist tightens, pulling him back against him. Jaskier fills out within seconds. Geralt has touched him since getting back from Toussaint, but quick and fleeting touches to his arms and shoulders and neck. Nothing to anything lower than his waist, and Jaskier is slowly growing insane. If this is his punishment, then he has to tip his hat to Geralt Rivia, because not having the other man touch him is torture.

At that, he opens his eyes and glances over his shoulder. Geralt is awake, golden eyes catching his the second Jaskier turns around. And they hold as Geralt’s hips rock forward, his cock rubbing against the swell of Jaskier’s ass.

It’s not nearly enough of what he needs, but he’ll lounge in it. Jaskier breathes, lifting his chin. A silent request for a kiss. It’s one easily granted. Geralt leans forward and catches Jaskier’s lips in his, warmth blooming through both of them.

They only break apart when air thins. Jaskier gasps against Geralt’s mouth, feeling a thrum of pleasure roll through him. It might not be enough of a touch to get him anywhere, but his body still knows Geralt and his skin and his hands, and Jaskier can already feel his breath starting to thin. He reaches back, hand catching on to Geralt’s hip and dragging him closer. “Please,” Jaskier lilts, already so desperate and wanting to touch everything he can on Geralt.

The other man regards him for a moment. Sure hands catch on to his hips, keeping Jaskier in place while he grinds against him. Geralt knows exactly where to catch and hold, and Jaskier can’t do anything but try and hitch his hips back against Geralt’s.

The other man burrows his face into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck. Hot breath puffs against the stretch of his neck. Jaskier’s moan is warm and wet against his own arm, his fingers curling into his pillow and knuckles turning white.

A growl grapples up his throat. “Are you going to fuck me at some point, darling?” Jaskier half-snarls, reaching back to grab at Geralt’s hip again.

His wrist is caught in a sure and firm grip. Geralt brings Jaskier’s hand to his chest, pinning it there while low words rumble up through his throat and ghost the shell of Jaskier’s ear. “Your punishment starts today, _darling_ ,” he lilts. And before the words can settle with Jaskier, and he can even comprehend them, Geralt is gone.

A whine rips up through Jaskier’s throat. He looks over his shoulder and sees the other man moving away from him, sliding out of bed and gathering some clean clothes from a nearby. The cold left behind away Geralt is almost burning his bare back. His mouth hangs slack and his brows knit together as Geralt pads towards the bathroom, without so much as looking back to the bed or the person within it. “Geralt,” Jaskier growls. Geralt barely flinches, stepping into the bathroom and letting the door click shut behind him.

The silence Jaskier is left in is almost deafening. It cracks slightly at the familiar hum of the shower switching on and the door sliding open. Jaskier blinks at the bathroom’s door. Words perch on the tip of his tongue. Words that would easily spill out of him as he would wrangle the sheets and linens off of him and march into the bathroom and give Geralt Rivia a piece of his mind. Something that sounds suspiciously like a conscious whispers to him; he _does_ deserve some retribution, a punishment. But not like this. This is just _rude_.

 _Fuck Geralt Rivia_.

Jaskier lets his hands wander. His cock aches and twitches as his fingers curl around it, and the bloom of warm pleasure through him earns a small whine. He gets a few sure, firm strokes in before another growl rips through his throat. Something pulls at him to stop. Geralt’s words whisper against his ear, just as firmly as they did when Geralt was behind him.

His hand falls away from himself and he sighs harshly. _Fuck_. He isn’t sure how long he stays there, staring up at the ceiling and with his fingers burrowing into the sheets and mattress underneath him, but it’s enough time for a freshly washed and clothed Geralt to pad back out of the bathroom.

Jaskier lifts his head to look at him; to stare and glower and hope Geralt understands that he’s in a foul humour and that he should probably do something about it. But Geralt ignores him, striding over to his wardrobe and pulling out a tie and fitted blazer. He has a meeting today, then. He’ll be away from the house.

Fine. If Geralt isn’t going to help him, then Jaskier will help himself—

“Don’t even think about touching yourself while I’m gone.”

The words settle over him and almost suffocate. They burrow in through his skin and muscles and into his bones. Jaskier arches an eyebrow. Geralt doesn’t even look at him; instead, perching at the end of the bed and pulling on his shoes, neatly and deftly doing up the laces.

Jaskier stares at the man’s back, hoping that he can feel how much his gaze must be burning him. “Geralt—”

He doesn’t look over his shoulder, but Geralt holds Jaskier’s complete attention. “Vesemir invited us to dinner in three weeks,” he says sternly and simply, words almost clipped and firm. “That security video was twenty-one minutes long. Each minute is a day. So for three weeks, you’re not allowed to come.”

With that, Geralt stands and adjusts his cufflinks, making sure his suit is neat and unruffled. When he finally settles his eyes on to Jaskier, Jaskier struggles not to burrow underneath the blankets to hide from it. “Am I clear?”

Jaskier’s tongue sits heavy in his mouth, almost smothering. The words rushing through his head almost spill out – the kinds of words that will get that three weeks turned into three months within a heartbeat. Instead, he offers Geralt the thinnest smile he can, one that doesn’t even reach his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

He’s going to kill someone. Vesemir is untouchable. Even if he managed to find the old bastard’s house, Vesemir would have a bullet in his head the second he stepped out of his car. Fine. Vesemir gets to live. But _Geralt_ —

Lambert just about manages to swallow a growl at yet another person looking at him during the weekly meeting. He hates them on most occasions. When Vesemir was here, it was nothing more than ageing men edging closer and closer to death, mumbling amongst themselves about all that they’ve sent their own pups to do. Now, with Geralt, he fears it’s the same, just with different people around the table.

Their words grate on his ears, even as he catches the bridge of his nose and breathes steadily. _In and out_. He focuses on anything else but the cage gripping on to him. He knows it’s there. How could he fucking not? Aiden delights in it. He had to bargain to even be let out of it to take a piss. Aiden may stay well out of wolf business but the Cat is revelling too much in being granted some slight sliver of power from the Old Wolf. Maybe he’ll kill Aiden. He’s the one taking way too much pleasure in all of this.

Then again, Jaskier was the one to get them into this mess—

He looks across the table, to his other brother arching an eyebrow at him. It’s only then does it cross his mind that most people might not know what’s wrong with him. _Another bad day_ , they might whisper to each other later. And he wouldn’t mind it. They know how short-tempered the youngest wolf can get, lifting his lip and baring teeth at anyone for any reason. Maybe this day is just one of the worse ones.

Lambert glowers at Eskel, just enough for the other man to roll his eyes and look back towards Varin – gods bless him – still rambling on about something or other.

And then there’s Geralt, lording over their pack from the head of the table, reclined in his chair like some sort of throne, and listening intently to everything Varin has to say. Lambert glances at the clock hanging on the wall behind the White Wolf. A few more minutes and he’ll be free of this hell. He might even manage to get back to Aiden’s apartment.

The second the man’s name crosses his mind, his phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s not an odd thing, for Lambert to fish his phone out and tap at it while meetings are being held. Usually, it’s messages from scouts prowling through their boroughs, making sure that everything is in order. And both Lambert and Eskel like to be kept well-informed. No one bats an eye as Lambert fishes his phone out of his pocket and lets his screen blink on.

And he just about manages to clamp down on a noise as a message from Aiden greets him. He flattens the screen of his phone on to his thigh, cautiously look to his neighbours at the table just to be sure their eyes didn’t wander where they didn’t need to. He keeps the worst of the warm colour off of his face as he looks back to his phone, keeping it close to his chest, as he just makes sure he saw what he saw.

And he absolutely did. A post-shower Aiden standing in front of his bathroom mirror, the sink just barely cutting off a view of anything below the low slung of his hip. Aiden’s lips are curled into a playful smile.

And a message comes along a few minutes after, when Lambert thinks he has the worst of his staggered breathing under control.

_Cat, 13:42 : Hope you’re doing okay x _

_Cat, 13:42 : If you’re uncomfortable, just let me know, baby x_

Lambert glowers down at his phone. He quickly taps out a response, hoping that no curious eyes wander to his phone.

**Lambert, 13:43 : You’re fucking dead.**

**Lambert, 13:43 : They won’t even find what’s left of you after I’m done. **

**Lambert, 13:43 : Sleep with one eye open, asshole. I know where you live. **

Lambert breathes in a steady breath and locks his phone, stuffing it back into his pocket. He looks around at his neighbours, to Geralt and Eskel and Aubrey sitting next to him, and they’re all too invested in the meeting wrapping up to really be paying him any sort of attention. And to be sure, he stares at Eskel for a bit longer than he needs to; because Eskel can be an observant prick, and he’s attuned into Lambert’s misery. But he looks like he’s about to fall off to sleep if Varin goes on for another minute, so he’s in the clear.

The second Geralt nods, a silent indicator that the meeting is over and that they can leave, Lambert pushes past everyone. He doesn’t know where he needs to be, but he just needs to not have dozens of eyes threatening to fall on to him. He can still feel it; the cage snugly fitted around him. And the only two keys in existence are with the Old Wolf and his current tormentor; a bastard Cat from Stygga who is enjoying Lambert’s suffering a bit too much for his liking.

Maybe Aiden’s secretly a psychopath. It’s the only explanation. Though, he did confide in Lambert, during one of his many curse-filled storms about having a _fucking titanium cock cage on all day_ that Vesemir was only going to have one key made, and he would be in sole possession of it. And it sounds like something the old bastard would do. He would be forced to slink with his tail in between his legs all the way to wherever-the-fuck Vesemir is currently living, and almost beg to be let out. And Lambert would rather die than do that.

He can’t reach the backyard quick enough, somewhere away from prying eyes. Even with the houses lining the street stacked on either side of them, the wooden and chain fence is high enough to turn away their neighbours’ eyes.

The second he reaches the backyard, he notices that he isn’t alone. Cigarette smoke tints the air and Lambert’s nostrils flare at the scent of it. There’s a small veranda to the back of the house, looking out on to the backyard and the grass and garden steadily growing there. The veranda is almost overtaken with ivy and flowers coiling around it, shielding out most of the summer sun when the days get hotter. Now, in the cooler months, it’s only good for breaking the worst of the winds that tumble through the neighbourhood, bringing cold salted air from the ocean nearby.

Taking one look at Jaskier’s face, Lambert knows that the little bird doesn’t seem to be coping any better than he is. _Good_ , he thinks, stepping out into the backyard and letting a chill breeze rush over his skin. It prickles into gooseflesh and he fights off a shiver that threatens to shake through him.

Jaskier catches him in the corner of his eye. He regards him for less than a second before shimmying over on the bench he’s perched on, tapping the side of it. An invitation to sit and lament their cursed fates.

Lambert huffs a short laugh. “Didn’t know you smoked,” he hums, nodding to the half-empty packet sitting on the bench beside the little bird.

Jaskier takes a steady inhale. “I don’t,” he breathes out through a plume of smoke. “Not often, anyway. But I needed something and here we are.”

Lambert hums. He takes one when offered, because he doesn’t smoke much either but he hasn’t been laid in almost a week – or has it been a few days? He really isn’t sure anymore – and fuck it. Jaskier tosses him a lighter and they both take long drags, letting smoke plume out through their noses and mouths as they look out on to the vacant backyard.

Lambert sets the cigarette between his lips, handing the lighter back. “Good to know he has you held on a leash too,” he mumbles, grinning at the small flicker of irritation that blinks on the lark’s face. “Oh gods, he’s got you good, hasn’t he? What is it? No sex?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “As if I’d tell you.”

“You got me into this mess, pigeon,” Lambert lulls, blowing out his next breath of smoke towards Jaskier and watching it drift by the man’s face. Jaskier’s jaw clenches. He’s never seen the little bird angry – except for that one night where he lorded over Bonhart in Geralt’s absence. The little bird is absolutely capable of casting a big shadow over the boroughs, but he doesn’t. He keeps himself to a nice quaint perch by the White Wolf’s side and sees where it takes him.

And he’s gotten too mouthy for his own good.

Lambert’s lips twitch. “Come on, pidge,” he lulls, “we’re both in trouble with the Boss. Why don’t you confide in me, hmm?”

For all that he might be teetering on a knife’s edge, Lambert knows that the bird isn’t stupid. He turns to look at Lambert, blue eyes navigating his for a moment before venturing elsewhere. And he takes note of the difference in clothing he’s selected for the day. “Sweatpants instead of slacks,” Jaskier mulls over another drag of his cigarette. “Going for comfort today, are we?”

Lambert’s eyebrow twitches. _Mouthy little bastard_. He opens his mouth, something sharp and lashing perched on the tip of his tongue, and it dies the second he hears his name. Eskel steps out into the backyard, brows knitted together. “Stop acting like a pair of gossiping molls. Lambert, I need you to come with me and check on a warehouse in Redania.”

Jaskier snatches his box of cigarettes back and bundled them into his pocket, standing up from his perch and stalk past Eskel. The man arches an eyebrow, and Lambert just rolls his eyes. “It’s not you, gorgeous,” he rumbles, “his balls are blue, is all.”

Eskel’s brows climb higher, but he leaves it at that.

* * *

Geralt has a routine throughout the day. Office hours are kept to the morning and early afternoon, and when all of his prowling and patrolling through the boroughs have been reported back to him, he likes to lounge in the evenings and nights as peacefully as he can. He’s terribly predictable when it comes to spending the nights at home; dressed down to sweatpants and a loose tee, armed with nothing more than a glass of dark whiskey that is more syrup than anything else, he lounges in front of a lit hearth and watches whatever drivel makes its way on to TV. Not that he pays much attention to it. It’s just another way to turn off his brain for a minute, letting the worries of the day slowly slide off of his shoulders.

And then there’s Jaskier. He steps into the living room, the legs of his sweatpants pooling by his ankles and a sleep-shirt that once belonged to Geralt almost hanging off of one shoulder. Even if his skin didn’t smell like the other man all of the time, wearing his clothes certainly adds to the scent. And it’s a quick way of diverting Geralt’s attention from whatever it is that he’s doing.

He arches an eyebrow when Jaskier stalks over to him, letting his hips sway in the way they did when he approached a hunt, eyes focused on his prey and knowing where to bite to take them down. Geralt has seen those eyes be his own downfall, and knows when to look away from them.

Jaskier clicks his tongue. When he’s close to the man’s usual perch – an old leather armchair pulled in front of the fireplace – Jaskier reaches out and trails his fingers lightly across Geralt’s bare arm. It manages to lure a small shiver out of Geralt, but nothing more. “You know,” Jaskier lulls, prowling towards Geralt’s legs, “Vesemir doesn’t have to know everything that goes on in our lives. I’m sure one quick romp won’t go noticed.” He dusts a light touch along any stretch of skin he can find of Geralt’s arm, watching for gooseflesh try and prickle his skin. Instead, knowing that Geralt still isn’t even looking at him, he goes to his usual perch. He throws a leg over Geralt’s lap, perching on his lap and burrowing close to his chest, just enough for Geralt to be pinned back against the couch.

Geralt huffs a short laugh. “He’ll know, little bird,” he rumbles, looking past Jaskier to the crackling fire. He lifts his glass of whiskey to his lips, nose flaring at the scent of it, before he takes a measured sip.

Jaskier’s jaw flexes. Gods only know how many days it’s been. Geralt has looked at him just fine, rubbing himself along the swell of Jaskier’s ass in the morning and seeing to his own hardness, and slinking off just as Jaskier’s breaths turn to whines and he gets desperate. He’s been teetering along a thin line for what feels like years, and the only thing that is making some attempt to keep him sane is counting down the days until their meeting with Vesemir.

Or _dinner_ , as he should say. And even though he knows that as soon as he meets with the Old Wolf, he can have Geralt’s touch back on him again, maybe he can breathe. The tension tightening his shoulders and neck can finally ease and every light brush of Geralt’s fingers against his skin will stop feeling like electric bolts through him. But the thought of having such a private audience with the Old Wolf does make the tightening of his chest worse. He might have tendrils of control over Geralt, but the Old Wolf of Kaedwen is another matter entirely.

Everything Geralt has, Vesemir built and gifted to him. Even just thinking of the man’s name is enough to lift the hairs on his arms and bubble his skin into gooseflesh. Geralt holds him with such reverence that he wondered if he was ever going to meet him – Vesemir walked away from all of this years ago, stalking into the shadows and not even back. Not many people can do that; not without their backs being littered with daggers and bullets.

The thought of being in a house with the Old Wolf, in a place far-flung from the reach of Geralt’s house or anyone else, and it’ll only be the three of them it seems, it plays on Jaskier’s mind.

Jaskier doesn’t pout. He’s not above it; especially on the odd and rare occasion Geralt digs his heels in and refuses to give him what he wants. But he’s pretty damn close to pouting now. His fingers nimbly pluck at the buttons of the man’s shirt, loosening those at the top and revealing more of Geralt’s chest to him. Geralt makes no move to stop him, instead, he just watches. Golden eyes wholly focused on him and an unreadable expression. If Jaskier hasn’t been allowed a release, then Geralt hasn’t either. And Jaskier can’t figure out if it’s a direct order from the Old Wolf himself, or some sort of strange solidarity Geralt is sharing with him. Either way, he’s not a fan of it.

He stays perched on Geralt’s lap. If he can’t persuade the other man to set his hands on him, then all he can do is curl into Geralt’s chest, listening to the crackle of the hearth. Geralt flees from the rest of the house and the boroughs towards the end of the day, and Jaskier tends to leave him alone in these moments. When he’s slouched in his usual chair, watching a fireplace spark and crackle until the flames die out and his blood is tinted with whiskey.

Jaskier slips a hand through the open lapels of Geralt’s shirt, running his palm along the swells of muscle and warm skin he finds underneath. A small smile threatens to pull at his lips when he hears the faintest hitch in Geralt’s throat. “Can I touch you, at least?” Jaskier lulls, letting his lips find the stretch of Geralt’s neck. His skin is warm and smells like thinning cologne from the day.

Geralt sits as still as he can, but he shifts his weight slightly, and Jaskier smiles. “I’ve missed you,” Jaskier tries again, placing light dusting kisses along the column of Geralt’s neck, drifting up towards his jaw. His hand palms what it can, knowing that Geralt likes his touch and whatever way he can get his hands on him. And Jaskier can be just as devastating with his words. “You don’t have to touch me. I’ll be good for you, doing exactly what you asked. But you feel so tense, darling. Let me help you. Would you like my hands on you?”

Geralt’s breath thins and threatens to catch in his throat. Just out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier spots Geralt’s grasp on his tumbler of whiskey tightening. His knuckles turn almost white, threatening to shatter the glass as he looks straight past Jaskier and focuses on the hearth instead.

Jaskier’s smile hides in the hollow of Geralt’s neck. He lets his hips shift, trying to find a more comfortable position, but he grinds down on Geralt’s lap, listening intently to the small hitch in the man’s throat. Jaskier’s teeth nip at his jaw. He can see the man’s skin starting to flush and bloom with heat and colour. Every slight shift underneath him only has them rolling their hips together. Jaskier’s smile only grows when he can feel Geralt thickening underneath him.

Nimble fingers set back on to the rest of Geralt’s shirt buttons, almost stumbling as he tries to get them open and reveal more of the man’s chest. Geralt doesn’t stop him. If anything, he sinks back into the couch, a long and languid sigh slipping out of him as his eyes flutter closed. Because as long as Jaskier has gone without Geralt’s touch, the other man has gone without his. And Jaskier can be _very_ convincing when he needs to be.

Jaskier shoves Geralt’s shirt away, setting his hands on to the man’s skin and feeling it warm underneath his touch. “I can feel how tense you are, baby,” Jaskier murmurs, pulling away from Geralt’s neck and looking down at him. He looks more relaxed than he’s been in the last few days; the roughened edge around him starting to smoothen again.

Golden eyes slowly blink up at him, regarding for a moment. Jaskier lets his head tilt and his eyes soften. He knows how to work Geralt; but for the first time, his lures seem to be batted away.

Geralt reaches up, catching Jaskier’s wrists. He sits up abruptly, jostling Jaskier in his lap, and bringing him close enough to feel the warmth of his whiskey-tinted breath. “You were given an order, my little bird,” he rumbles, words low but Jaskier hands off of every single one of them. Golden eyes glint in the gentle glow of the fire sparking behind him. “And good boys follow orders.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, listen; literally as soon as I posted the first chapter and said I would have the next out soon, my brain shut down. And it's still down, but we're starting to reboot. Slowly. So please bear with 😂


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines Day, fellow delinquents 🌹
> 
> This...this is a long chapter 😂 (if you see any spelling mistakes just...don't mention them pls lol I'm very tired)

It’s hell. It’s his own personal hell and he’ll curse Vesemir Morhen’s name until his last breath. And that last breath will come quicker if the Old Wolf ever hears someone like Jaskier taking his name in vain. So he keeps it to himself, pulling away from Geralt in the mornings and glowering at him when he gets out of bed and readies for work. When he sees Lambert within the house, trying to not shuffle his weight too much, though Jaskier can tell how much discomfort he’s in, he glares at him too. _Fine_ , it was his fault that they’re in this mess, but he just wants to be pissed off about it.

It’s not like he’s counting down the days or anything; that he doesn’t have the date practically marked in his phone, circled and highlighted as the day of freedom. And he can only assume he’ll be granted freedom after the three weeks are up, though he begins to doubt it as the three weeks start to wane and the date approaches. Gods alive, he’s going to meet Vesemir, and who knows what he’ll do to Jaskier if he finds out how much of a hold he has over the Old Wolf’s prized pup. Geralt can’t be compromised like that. He wonders how he hasn’t been gunned down already. Surely whispers got back to the Old Wolf’s den, telling him about his pup’s newest little bird; a pretty songbird with the prettiest voice who lords too much power over his pup.

The one thing that doesn’t sit right with him is that none of the others are going. At what could only be regarded as some sort of final supper, where he’s gathered at a dining table with Geralt and his brothers, he suddenly realises he’s being lured into a wolf’s den as the only bird for miles. Even here, he’s made his alliances with whoever he’s needed – underneath all of the glowering and snarling, wolves can be quite sweet things. But he’ll be away from here, with someone he has only met as a shadow, and that shadow is already incredibly imposing.

If any of the wolves around him spot some faint flickers of fear blink on to his face, none of them mention it.

* * *

He doesn’t know what to expect. Even the mention of Vesemir’s name was enough to ignite fear in most people – if they were smart and knew when to lower their gaze and back off, retreating with their tails between their legs. Jaskier was there in the early days, when the Old Wolf still lorded over the boroughs; and even though he kept himself to his den in Kaedwen, his shadow seemed to stretch from one side of the Continent to the other, and no one dared to interfere with his things.

Jaskier worked with what he could, but even as a doe-eyed boy barely into his adult years, he knew when to avoid poking at a dozing wolf’s side.

He imagines Geralt is watching him from the corner of his eye, even as he drives them further and further away from their Kaedwen den. The cityscape begins to thin the further away Geralt takes them, until eventually, the glow of building lights and signs fade and is left behind. Outside the borough is a long stretch of farmland, reaching out towards the horizon. Jaskier doesn’t even bother heading out this far. There’s never any business for him out here. Even in the small villages and towns outside of the main city, there’s nothing of any worth to find.

A good place to hide, he supposes, if he were to retire when his hair turns grey and his body begins to wither.

It’s a strange drive, to say the least. Coën isn’t bringing them, preferring to stay right where he is, within the comfortable confines of the den at home. And Jaskier can’t really blame him at all. But it’s a surprise to see Geralt behind the wheel, taking one of the cars that won’t immediately remind anyone of the Kaedwen wolf pack. Both of them are going as armoured as they can. Jaskier fished out the nicest clothes he could get his hands on; a pressed white shirt, unbuttoned slightly at the neck, black slacks that cling to his hips and legs, and a blazer fitted to his frame.

What does one wear to a meeting like this? He really didn’t know. As soon as Geralt stepped downstairs, wearing roughly the same thing as Jaskier, he knew that maybe this would be fine. Then again, Jaskier has never known Geralt to look anything _but_ well-kept.

Vesemir’s house is a far reach from Kaedwen, almost lost to scenic countryside well outside the borders of the city. No one would think to look for him out here; if anyone _was_ brave enough to come hunting an Old Wolf, that is. And Jaskier can’t imagine most would be. They’ve long since passed the last village, and even that’s lost to the horizon as Geralt drives along a worn path, winding into a faint smattering of forest and the beginnings of some hills. When what he can only presume is Vesemir’s house appears in the distance, Jaskier blinks.

It _is_ what he expected it to be. No one who made as much gold and jewels as Vesemir has simply left it all behind. Dragons might hoard their wealth but they’re not stupid enough to leave it behind after they’ve flown away.

The wrought iron gate that seems to tower over them gives Jaskier the impression that Vesemir took his fair share of gold with him into the wilds outside of Kaedwen. The gate is manned by one lone sentry – well, one that Jaskier can see, anyway. Gods only know how many people are stalking through Vesemir’s land, keeping watch. They don’t have to wait long. The second the sentry spots Geralt, he opens the gate and waves them through; though Jaskier doesn’t miss the way the sentry’s eyes glance to him, quietly noting his presence in the car.

As soon as they’re in the gates, Jaskier turns to look back through the windows. A neatly kept driveway that breaks through the forest, weaving through trees that begin to thicken and shield the way from outside eyes. Jaskier hums. Geralt hasn’t said much throughout the drive. Even in the moments Jaskier has tried to lure chatter out of him, he has kept stubbornly tight-lipped.

Jaskier risked a quick glance at him. His eyes are locked on to the road, bordering on unblinking as he leads them to Vesemir’s home. But Jaskier notices the almost white-knuckled grip he has on the steering wheel, and the fact that he’s holding on to it with two hands instead of one; when he usually drives care-free and languid. That man isn’t with him now.

And that plumes the first curls in his stomach. He can feel it churning and his throat starting to tighten. In his own mind, maybe what he did wasn’t _that_ bad; but it’s earned him an invitation to the den of the Old Wolf, and that just says it all.

Jaskier bristles in his seat, fidgeting and readjusting the way his seatbelt lies across him. And that Geralt sees, if the small twitch of the corner of his lip is anything to go by.

A light forest shields most of the driveway, but thins once the house comes into view. Even with the sun starting to fall behind a nearby ridge of mountains, casting the sky orange and purple, the house is well lit. It’s what Jaskier expected it to be; a modern design of wood and glass and stone. Slanted lines and darkly varnished wood almost have the house blending into the forest surrounding it. Jaskier spots more wolves slinking out of the shadows around the house; checking their radios and murmuring into them, nodding when their eyes fall on to Geralt parking the car to the side of the house. Jaskier’s eyes drift down. Holstered handguns sit by their hips while all of them have rifles slung over their shoulders and already held in their hands. Even those who chatter on the radio keep their fingers by the trigger.

Jaskier blinks. The Old Wolf of Kaedwen might have amassed a number of enemies throughout the years – enemies who might not have been happy to see him just walk away from their world without so much as a nick or graze – but at least he’s taking precautions.

Geralt seems wholly unfazed by it. The second the engine shuts off, Geralt steps out of the car and strides over to Jaskier’s side, deftly doing up the buttons of his blazer. Jaskier doesn’t make any move to open the door, waiting on Geralt to come to his side and click it open for him.

When he opens it, Geralt offers him a hand. Jaskier’s skin sets alight. It’s been three weeks, with Geralt touching him everywhere he _really_ doesn’t want it. Wandering hands that have lured trembles out of him, but have stopped short of actually doing anything. And then Geralt wonders why his little songbird has stopped singing for him; why his tongue has turned into thorns. Jaskier offers him a small smile, slipping his hand into Geralt’s and letting the man help him to his feet.

Vesemir’s land seems to stretch on to the horizon. The moment fresh crisp air hits his face, Jaskier’s nose flares. The house sits overlooking a lake. Bristling cold air nips at any exposed skin it can find. To his surprise, Geralt coils an arm around his waist after shutting the door, keeping Jaskier flush to him.

“It’s warm inside,” he murmurs, leading them to the front of the house. A few sentries lower their heads in greeting to them – to _Geralt_ , he has to correct himself. They look at him only when they’ve passed, and he’s grown used to the kind of look they give him. The once-over, eyes travelling from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet and back up again. Eyes that linger on the White Wolf’s arm slung possessively around his waist, keeping him flush and in-step with him as they head towards the door of the house.

A door that’s already cracked open just as they step up towards it. Jaskier blinks. For all the rumours and whispers that have dusted his ears over his life, he’s never actually _seen_ the Old Wolf. And the man that greets them at the door isn’t what he expects.

He must have been like Geralt in his youth; well-built and strong. Some of it still remains. Jaskier can imagine where the muscle must have sat and bulked him out. And even now, with years slowly beginning to creep up on him and turning what used to be coal-black hair grey, lines etching into the hollows of his face and shadowing his eyes, Jaskier can’t help but think why he doesn’t have anyone here for company.

He can imagine the vetting anyone has to do just to get as far as the gate. Vesemir is still alive because he’s careful. Even letting a shrike into his den must have been dangerous – if not for some assurance by Geralt that even though his little bird is a troublesome thing, he poses no real threat.

Geralt lowers his head slightly when Vesemir’s eyes land on him. The Old Wolf smiles; something that rounds his cheeks and crinkles his eyes. “My boy,” he says, stepping forward to bring Geralt into a firm hug.

The second Geralt slips away from him, Jaskier has to fight off a shiver. With the breeze bustling in off of the lake and the absence of Geralt’s familiar warmth, he struggles not to wrap his arms around himself.

Vesemir steps back from Geralt, but keeps his hands on the man’s upper arms. He runs his eyes over all of him, quietly examining. Vesemir hums, nodding. “Good of you to come,” he rumbles.

Geralt offers him a small smile. “I could hardly tell you no.”

Jaskier watches them. The familiarity is evident; Geralt’s shoulders slacken and his spine curves as Vesemir runs his eyes over him. Something that would have Jaskier’s feet rooting to the ground, just to keep his legs strong underneath him and stop them from crumbling.

When Vesemir does look to him, Jaskier has to remind himself to breathe.

The Old Wolf lifts his chin. “And this must be the Shrike I’ve heard so much about,” he says, voice lowering into the timbre Jaskier imagined him having. He can take absolutely nothing from Vesemir’s eyes. They’re a similar hue of gold as Geralt’s, but he can read Geralt’s eyes. He can lift nothing from Vesemir, and for the first time in a while, possibly in his life, Jaskier bristles.

He doesn’t know what to do. Does he bow his head like everyone else? Does he hold the Wolf’s eyes for as long as he can, unwilling to let himself curl into himself?

A soft chuckle slips out of Vesemir. Worn golden eyes sweep over every inch of him before darting to Geralt, regarding him for a moment. Vesemir hums and gestures for them to come in, and warmth almost scalds Jaskier’s skin the second he steps into the house. It’s open and more than enough room for one person, with floor to ceiling windows looking out on to the forest and lake, giving Vesemir a good view of everything. And with all of the wolves he has prowling around, Jaskier doubts he’s had any problems with people trying to sneak in and catch him unaware.

Soft conversation hums between Geralt and Vesemir, both of them turning fond and gentle as the pad through the house. Jaskier trails behind, looking around at what the gold and jewels of a life in their kind of business bought. If he could retire to a place like this, he would die happy. Everything seems coated in gold, and he can almost smell it in the air; although the house has an odd cabin-like feel to it, and he can only presume the boroughs and all of its wealth hadn’t corrupted Vesemir too much.

Vesemir leads them into a dining room, gesturing for them both to take a seat at an already set table. It reminds him of being back at their house, and it could be the only time he sees Geralt not at the head of the table. He’ll be perched at Vesemir’s right-hand side, where he can only presume Geralt grew up and lived for years until Vesemir had enough of the boroughs’ nonsense and left.

He does blink at Vesemir pulling out a chair for him. It almost takes Jaskier a minute to realise that Vesemir is waiting for him to take it. His throat bobs as he struggles to push words out. “Thank you.” He almost winces at how rasped his words are.

Vesemir sets him into the table, lingering behind him for a moment before slipping away. And even when he can bring his eyes on to the man, Jaskier is _painfully_ aware of where Vesemir is from his footsteps alone, and how far into a wolf’s den he’s stumbled.

Geralt takes his seat opposite him, nonchalantly making small adjustments to his cutlery and place setting. If he squints, Jaskier can spot the faintest hint of a smirk ghosting the corner of the man’s lips. For all that Geralt might fear his own mentor, at least he’s taking some joy in the fact that Jaskier might be even more afraid.

There’s no reason to be. Vesemir is an ageing man living at the edge of the world. Even with all of his wolves circling and prowling outside, Jaskier has seen it all before – he’s completed hits in places like this, where he was chest-deep in shit and had to flounder his own way out.

Vesemir comes back with plates laden with sliced steak and bread and all the smells of herbs and garlic and butter thicken the air and coat the roof of Jaskier’s mouth. He sits up straight in his seat, painfully aware of where his hands are and how tall to keep his spine. And gods alive, he hates it. Everything in him would have him slouch, use a barbed tongue against Vesemir to flesh him out and see what all the fuss is about.

And something firm and sounding a bit too much like Geralt tells him to _sit_ and _stay_ and _behave_. He barely looks at Vesemir when the Old Wolf gestures for him to help himself to the spread of food gathered in the middle of the three of them – more than enough, and if by the smell alone is anything to go by, all home made. The thought of someone like Vesemir using his free time to cook homemade meals threatens to have a laugh slipping out of him.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “No waiter?” he asks. “No staff?”

Vesemir’s glower is short-lived and barely scalds Geralt. “There’s no need,” he rumbles, sighing when he sits at the head of the table and looks between the two of them. “Unless I get more frequent visits from my pups that require waitstaff?”

Geralt hums. “I’d love to visit you more, old man,” he replies. “But I’m busy, running a Continent that you left to me.”

Jaskier looks between each of them; eyes darting and unblinking. The easiness that seems to be seeping into Geralt’s skin, slowly loosening his shoulders and spine, it’s an odd thing to see. Even though he bristled and lowered his gaze and head the moment Vesemir stepped into their house in Kaedwen, and instantly, the house itself belonged to the Old Wolf again like he had never left. It’s odd seeing Geralt like this; with a faint smile ghosting his lips as he speaks to the man he reveres with his whole soul with such familiarity.

Vesemir’s eyes drift to him, quietly regarding as he takes a slow measured sip of wine. “You’re tense, Shrike,” he notes, setting his glass back down on the table and pinching the neck. His eyes don’t leave Jaskier’s for a second. The barest of smiles curl the corner of his lips. “Try to relax. Enjoy yourself.”

 _Relax. Enjoy yourself_. Jaskier’s eyes dart over to Geralt, looking for whatever queue he can find from the other man to see if Vesemir is joking or not, because he honestly can’t tell. He doesn’t seem to be, and Jaskier can’t get a read off of that either. He turns back to his steak, struggling not to sigh at the taste of it. It’s good. Good food that has his toes curling and noises threatening to spill out of his throat.

And it lingers in the back of his mind; why he’s here. He remembers everything Geralt said to him – he would endure three weeks worth of hell, and then go to the Old Wolf’s den for a dinner with him. And Jaskier can’t, for the life of him, figure out if those two things are related. He hopes not. Though, he does find himself looking Vesemir over, noting the swells of muscle that still cling to him, filling him out just enough to show through his button-up shirt and slacks. Shoulder-length hair that was probably coal black at one point is streaked grey and combed back, and just to the back of Vesemir’s ear, trailing down his neck and dipping below the collar of his shirt, Jaskier spots a long-faded tattoo.

He looks _normal_ , and that was always the danger with their lines of work. The most mundane looking person he could meet on the street could be the next insurgent breaking away from the boroughs. A skittish and bumbling client he used to take when he worked in the bars turns out to be the head cook of Cintra’s meth empire. People usually have their tells, their ticks that give them away. Vesemir has an aura about him; that when he glances over at Jaskier, his throat tightens and bobs and his words still on his tongue. He can have all the fun he likes with Geralt and the other dogs within the house, but Vesemir is something else entirely.

Geralt doesn’t mention _the incident_. Neither does Vesemir. Not a word. He isn’t naive enough to think that it’s been forgotten about. His skin is still prickling to be touched; at the slightest graze of Geralt’s arm against his on the way in or their feet brushing underneath the table, he might just cry. He needs Geralt so much, it’s beginning to hurt. A dull ache that sits embedded into the core of him, swelling and throbbing when Geralt lets his hand drift over his when they pass in the hall, or in the mornings when he slowly pulls away from Jaskier’s hold to start his workday.

And surely something is perched behind Vesemir’s eyes. He might smile and rumble laughs at the fond jokes he shares with his pup over a nice dinner, but Jaskier has known Vesemir’s kind before. The Old Wolf doesn’t just let things fizzle out. There will be an end to this, and Jaskier can’t decide if he’s looking forward to seeing it or not.

* * *

Dinner is painfully mundane. Idle chatter between Vesemir and Geralt, like who they are to each other rather than the former and current head of a criminal empire spanning the northern boroughs. He could use the steak knife Vesemir put at his place setting to cut through the air, it has become so thick and almost suffering. As Vesemir drains the last of his wine, letting it linger on his tongue for a moment, he sets his glass down slowly and sits back against his seat.

Vesemir looks to him with the same sort of curiosity Geralt did all those months ago, when Jaskier stumbled into a wolf’s den. He has the same eyes as Geralt. The same colour that shouldn’t be possible; gold that glints as it catches warm lights overhead. Eyes that regard him with the same scrutinising intensity that seems to strip him down to his bare-bones.

He can’t help but shuffle slightly in his seat, earning a small smirk from the Old Wolf. “Do I frighten you, little bird?”

He holds Vesemir’s gaze for as long as he can, though the man has a piercing gaze that Jaskier can’t help but look away from. He looks down to his own wine glass – still mostly full. The thought of eating while in a wolf’s den is like eating at Hade’s table. If he were to even have a drop of wine, his soul could be owned forever. As if it isn’t already. He peers across the table, noting Geralt watching him over the rim of his own glass as he takes a measured sip of wine.

He’s enjoying this, the sadistic bastard. Jaskier dug his own grave and this is Geralt kicking the dirt over on to his body. If it’s an apology he wants, he can have it. He could have had it a few days into Jaskier’s punishment; his skin bristles and bubbles with gooseflesh at the slightest brush of his wolf against him, and Geralt has been keeping his body stubbornly distant from Jaskier. His punishment has crossed over to torture weeks ago.

But he wills his tongue to move, no matter how heavily it sits within his mouth. “Not at all, sir,” Jaskier says lowly, amazed at how his words don’t rasp as they fight out of his dry throat. He turns to look at Vesemir, holding the man’s gaze once again. He manages to curl his lips into a ghost of a smile. “I’m just in admiration at everything you’ve accomplished.”

Vesemir’s head tilts, just slightly; letting Jaskier’s words sit with him for a moment. “Admiration,” he rumbles with a low laugh, adjusting his seat. And Jaskier can imagine him now at the head of the grand oak table they have within their Kaedwen house; Vesemir lording over his kingdom with a long-cast shadow. Vesemir turns to the younger wolf, musing. “ _Admiration_. He’s certainly a silver-tongued one, isn’t he?”

Geralt hums. His wine has been drained, and he regards the bottle nearby with a barely concealed curiosity of whether or not he would like a second glassful. “You have no idea,” he replies, deciding against the wine.

Vesemir laughs at that; one that’s full and comes out of the core of his chest. Before anyone can say anything else, an armoured man strides into the dining room. Jaskier watches him walk; straight-backed and with the temperament of an ex-soldier. Jaskier recognises the body armour and the rifle kept close to his front; one of the guards that haunt the forest around Vesemir’s house. Vesemir’s smile and mood that had been with them at dinner drops, and the difference is astounding. Like a light-switch being flicked, whatever had glinted in his eyes are now hollowed and dull. His lips thin into a pale line as he regards the man interrupting their dinner.

Jaskier tenses.

The man falls to Vesemir’s side, inclining his head for a moment before leaning down and murmuring something into the Old Wolf’s ear. Whether or not Jaskier wants to hear it, he isn’t sure. He turns his head away all the same, finishing the last of his dinner, trying to get it down before his churning stomach can protest.

He might walk around the streets of the boroughs with the assurance that comes with being perched by Geralt’s side; but he’s not stupid. Other pack and pride leaders invite him into their homes and he deals with them as quickly as he can. He isn’t stupid enough to think he could pull anything on Vesemir. The man might be covered and shrouded in a remote retreat and with more guards than Jaskier has ever seen anyone of any significance employ, but Jaskier lets himself look at Vesemir for a moment. Age has buried its claws into the Old Wolf but it will be another while before it starts dragging him down. His hair might have turned grey and lines set into his face that attracts shadows to settle, but Jaskier doesn’t doubt that Vesemir could still kill a man without even blinking.

Vesemir grunts, waving the guard away. Just as quickly as he appeared, the solider leaves, with his heavy footfalls echoing down the long hallway until they’re gone, and Jaskier is left once again to Geralt and Vesemir chattering among themselves.

Geralt regards his elder for a moment. “Is everything alright?”

Vesemir hums. “Yes, yes, nothing to worry about,” he says, dropping a napkin on to his plate before standing and righting the lapels of his shirt. His expression changes as quickly as Jaskier’s blinks. “Come, both of you. We’ve so much to talk about.”

* * *

Jaskier’s heart is going to burst out of his chest. That, or it will clamber up his throat and he’ll lurch it out on to one of the _very_ expensive-looking fur rugs and soft leather couches within the living room. Knowing how people of gold and gems like to spend it, this is probably one of many. The house itself seems to stretch on in all directions. Glass windows look out on to the forest or lake, with Vesemir assuring Jaskier’s curious eyes that the glass is bulletproof; thick enough to block even a ballistic bullet from a sniper lying in wait miles away.

He’s being lured further down into a wolf’s den, and he can’t help but keep close to Geralt’s side. A hearth is already lit and burning within the living room. Jaskier’s eyes drift from wall to wall; shelves laden with worn-leather books, another shelve stacked entirely with alcohol. Vesemir wanders over to it, taking three glass tumblers and a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf. He doesn’t even look over his shoulder as he speaks. “You still like Crach’s brew, don’t you lad?”

Geralt hums. “He only gets better with time.”

Vesemir nods. He brings each of them their glass, and Jaskier has to stop a noise from clambering out of his throat when his fingers brush Vesemir’s for a split second. The corners of the Old Wolf’s mouth twitch as he turns away, fetching something else. A beautifully and ornately designed wooden box, with golden appliqués around its corners. Vesemir opens the box with nimble fingers, delving inside to pull something out. And Jaskier’s nostrils flare at the familiar scent of weed.

Vesemir huffs a short laugh when he sets an expertly rolled joint to his lips, sparking it, and taking a long and measured drag. When he speaks, plumes of smoke wisp out through his lips and linger around his face. “Help yourself, little bird,” he drawls, sitting back into what Jaskier can only presume is _his_ chair; something grand and worn leather.

Jaskier regards the dinner table littered with drink and rolled joints almost lain out like a platter. _Fuck it_. Jaskier snatches a roll, huffing when Geralt offers to light it.

Smoke blooms out of Vesemir’s nose. “It will take the edge off,” he offers simply, watching Jaskier visibly start to slacken into the couch. _Gods alive_ , it’s good. Better than the kind of stuff circulating through the boroughs at the moment; cheap, imitation and hastily produced trash that could get out of hand if Eskel can’t keep his distributers in line.

He can feel the effects of everything slowly starting to quieten his mind. He can follow along with everything that rumbles between the two other men as they nurse their own drinks and let smoke plume around them.

He isn’t sure how long the haze lasts. It washes over him as a wave would, slowly dragging him down. As he sinks into the soft leather of the couch, his arms and legs grow heavier as tension slowly begins to slip away from him. Golden eyes watch him from across the room, eyes that drift back to Geralt and crinkle when they share a laugh about something or other from their past years, but they come back to him, quietly regarding and watching Jaskier as he steadies his breath.

Vesemir lifts his chin. “Has your little bird been giving you trouble, lad?”

He’s distantly aware of the rumbling hum next to him.

 _Oh shit_. Jaskier’s eyes can’t move away from Vesemir’s as the Old Wolf tilts his head, scrutinising Jaskier for a moment. A faint ghost of a smile curls the corners of his lips. “Have you had any trouble since?”

Geralt shuffles slightly. “No, sir.”

Vesemir’s smile only grows. “Good.” He leans forward, setting his tumbler of whiskey down on the table and inhaling one last breathe of smoke before snubbing it out. When he leans back into his chair, almost like a throne, he sinks into place; arms slung over the rests while his legs splay slightly, sitting up straight, but slightly to one side as he lounges. The Old Wolf that would have sat that way in meetings of the boroughs, power and influence pulsing out of him as he lorded over the northernmost cities as nothing but a shadow.

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. He watches Vesemir lift an arm, holding out his hand as an invitation or summons. “Come here, little bird,” he rumbles, “let me have a look at you.”

His tongue sits heavily in his mouth. Pulling himself up from the couch takes more effort than he’s willing to admit. His muscles are loosened and his bones are heavy as he manages to his feet, pausing for just a moment.

There’s a small nudge to his hip. Glancing down, Jaskier blinks at the sight of Geralt looking back up at him. His pupils have swallowed some of the gold, and Jaskier half-mourns it as the other man nudges him again. “Behave.” The word rumbles out of the core of Geralt’s chest.

It trembles through him and he struggles not to shiver. Vesemir isn’t that far away; just sitting at the other side of the coffee table. But every step Jaskier takes towards him is shuffled and half-staggered, not through any fault of the blunt still kept between his lips. Vesemir’s eyes darken as he draws closer.

Jaskier’s fingers thread into the man’s when he gets near, and Jaskier has to fight to keep breathing when Vesemir curls them and drags him close. His legs splay out. A perfect perch for a little bird. Vesemir draws him on to his lap, letting Jaskier’s free hand find his chest, fingers splayed out slightly over the almost-silken fabric of his shirt. The first few buttons are open, offering a slight glimpse on to the man’s chest. And Jaskier’s throat bobs.

Vesemir plucks his withering blunt from his lips, stretching to snub it out before turning his whole attention back on to Jaskier. His tongue sits heavily in his mouth as golden eyes run over every inch of him. And he squirms, shifting on Vesemir’s lap, trying to perch properly, but a firm arm coils around his waist and holds him steady.

A shuddering breath slips out of Jaskier when thick, calloused fingers drift along his side. Even through the fabric of his clothes, the touch scorches his skin and leaves a trail behind. Vesemir’s touch trails along him, eventually settling on the lapels of his jacket. The man hums. “I can’t have a proper look at you with all of these layers on,” he rumbles, the timbre of it shaking through Jaskier’s whole body. And it’s a mess of movement; trying to shuck and wrangle his blazer off of him. The order rumbles and echoes through him as he lets his blazer fall away, and blinking looks down at the nimble fingers loosening the buttons of his shirt.

A short huff of laughter fights through the haze slowly lapping over him, and he notices Vesemir’s eyes briefly leaving him to look over his shoulder; eyebrow cocking slightly. The laughter fades away and suddenly piercing golden eyes are back bearing into his. Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat.

The Old Wolf hums. “You’re a pretty thing,” Vesemir approves. Fingers drift to Jaskier’s hair, pushing some of it out of the way so Vesemir can get a better look at him. And Jaskier struggles not to shrink back into himself. The man scrutinises every inch of him, trailing after his fingers as they map out Jaskier’s temple and cheekbones and lips.

With his fingertips close, Jaskier’s lip lifts, teeth flashing and threatening to bite. Whatever has eased his muscles and bones starts to wane slightly, but keeping him mellow and floating. Still, it’s not just the wolves that have teeth. Vesemir’s finger drifts over his plump bottom lip, pulling it down slightly. He can’t help himself. His brain has stopped trying to communicate with his body. Before he can even catch up with his movements, Jaskier flashes his teeth and nips Vesemir’s finger when it drifts too close.

A flash sparks in Vesemir’s eyes; his expression completely unreadable, and it sends a small thrill through Jaskier at the thought of him not being able to get a read on the other man. Even with Geralt, who can mask his emotions so effectively when he’s lording over the boroughs and the meeting table he manages them from, Jaskier takes to those concrete and mortar walls with a sledgehammer with nothing but a slight curled smirk and glinting eyes.

Nothing meets him now, apart from a ghost of a smile threatening to blink on his lips. “I heard that you gave my pup some grief a few weeks ago,” Vesemir rumbles, watching his fingers as they trail down the length of Jaskier’s neck, delving past the collar of his shirt, searching for more skin. He doesn’t even look at Jaskier’s eyes, but the man holds his full attention. It’s a struggle to even remember to breathe.

Any breath that he had managed to pull into his lungs leaves him as Vesemir scratches a nail lightly against his skin, watching a flush colour in its wake. 

“Now,” the Old Wolf murmurs, “what are we to do about that?”

Jaskier’s throat bobs. It’s difficult to breathe, with the air getting thick and hard to catch, but he can’t bring himself to turn away from the elder. Instead, his ears twitch at the sound of a low timbre rumbling around him. He watches Vesemir’s lips move, words spilling out through them, but he struggles to catch up with them.

Vesemir hums, taking in the sight of him. And all of a sudden, his clothes are too much. There have been no orders; just a short one to remove his jacket. But even the fabric of his shirt and slacks tightens around him and he struggles not to claw it off.

There’s a murmur that sounds like Geralt. It has the same low rumble to it and Jaskier just about manages to bite down on a shake that threatens to roll through him. “He’s been good ever since.”

That lifts Vesemir’s eyebrow. He regards the bird perched in his lap for a moment. “Is that true, boy?”

Words struggle to claw their way up Jaskier’s throat. When they manage to fight their way out of his mouth, they rasp. “I’ve been good,” he breathes, letting his words drift into the slight smoky haze left around the elder man. “Geralt’s right. I’ve been good. I’m sorry, I’m sorry I went against him—against you, I just, I didn’t know what I was thinking—”

Vesemir clicks his tongue, and all at once the words stick in Jaskier’s mouth. The elder traces his fingers along Jaskier’s cheek. “Sweet little thing,” he purrs. Vesemir’s touch burns through his skin and muscles, burrowing its way deep into him. And Jaskier fights off a shiver. It’s been too long since anyone has touched him. Geralt has always kept his distance in the last three weeks, stubbornly slipping out of their bed just as Jaskier’s cock starts to twitch and fill. And it’s _fucking torture_ —

Vesemir doesn’t even look to Geralt as he speaks. “What do you think, pup?” he rumbles. “Does your little bird deserve release?”

His lungs empty of breath, and he barely manages to conceal the slight whine that slips through it. _Gods alive_ , his cock twitches in his slacks, starting to fill already with only light chaste touches dusted over him. Jaskier holds his breath, waiting to hear for Geralt’s reply. Even through the heavy air, blood rushes through his ears, drowning out most of the noise.

Geralt takes a measured breath. “Whatever you say, sir.”

At that, Jaskier blinks. It manages to cut through the shroud blanketing around him and his mouth turns dry. Blood humming in his veins, he stores _that_ piece of information away for later. He turns to look at the other man, seemingly sitting miles away, listening to the slight tremble to Geralt’s voice as he can’t remove his eyes from the both of them. Jaskier’s mouth dries.

One of Vesemir’s hands settle on to the arch of his hip, holding him close as his other drifts along the swell of his chest and the hollow of his throat. The fabric of his shirt scalds him as Vesemir presses it against his skin, already starting to bubble with gooseflesh. His words are low and measured. “You seem to be getting better at following orders, little bird,” he murmurs, just loud enough to be heard through the rushing in Jaskier’s ears. But the Old Wolf has his whole attention. Jaskier couldn’t look away even if he tried. “Let me have a better look at you, hmm? And we’ll see to it that you get exactly what you’ve earned.”

When he stands, he almost teeters, threatening to stumble over at how all of his blood rushes to the lower half of him. Vesemir already loosened most of his shirt buttons, exposing a sliver of his chest. And it’s more graceful than he anticipated, pulling the shirt up and over his head instead of trying to wrangle it or fumble with the buttons. He fights through getting the rest of his clothes off of him. They scratch against his skin and his heart could burst through his chest at any moment.

All the while, cool golden eyes quietly regard him. Vesemir takes a measured sip of whiskey, letting it sit on his tongue for a moment, before letting his eyes wander over the plains of exposed skin in front of him.

The last tendrils of whatever caught him on their drive over here start to fall away. He can still feel his skin pulling taut over him, a hair-line trigger away from splitting, and he just wants someone to _touch him_. But he lets his hips cock to one side, the long lines of him stretched out and on display as the last of his clothes fall away. Vesemir lifts his chin, humming. He pats his lap once. A silent invitation. Or an order.

Jaskier’s hips sway as he steps forward again, a smile trying to tug at the corners of his lips. He knows this. He knows the tremble that shudders through him when he’s perching and nesting, letting his body lean against a warm and firm chest and his hands begin to wander. He has Geralt mapped out completely by now, but it’s always good to be sure. What’s the point in wearing a button-up shirt towards the end of the day when he knows that Jaskier is just going to slip it off of him at some point?

Geralt sits forward, bracing his elbows on to his knees, with his drink long forgotten about. He just has enough wherewithal to set it on to the coffee table before Jaskier watches those familiar thick fingers start to fidget and twitch.

Jaskier just about settles on Vesemir’s lap when the man’s sturdy hands find his hips, keeping him held sure and firm. “I imagine it’s been hell for him too,” the elder lulls, letting his thumbs brush over the arches of Jaskier’s hips as his eyes wander, “having a bird as sweet and pretty as you nearby, but not allowed to enjoy.”

There’s a low hum somewhere else within the room. “It’s been a long three weeks.” Geralt’s voice is nothing but a low murmur, rumbling through Jaskier’s spine and almost having him shivering. It’s a struggle not to close his eyes and let the sound of it wash over him.

The elder’s eyes glint as he turns back to Jaskier, quietly regarding the man for a moment. “I could make it longer, boy,” Vesemir rumbles. “I could send you on your way right now, riled and wanting. And I know that you wouldn’t touch yourself or lure release from you because deep down, you _are_ good. Aren’t you? You just need a firm and steady hand to set you right.”

And Geralt has been _far_ too lenient with him. He puts up with too much of Jaskier’s shit. This is just the only time he may have pushed Geralt too far; and the man took him tumbling over the edge with him. Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat as it tries to swallow and close. He’s on a knife’s edge, painfully aware of where Vesemir is touching him and where he isn’t. A whine struggles to get past his clenched teeth.

Vesemir tilts his head, words flowing out of him measured and timed. “So what do you say, boy? Have you been good? Do you deserve your reward?”

Mustering anything to say is borderline painful. What he can push out of his throat comes out rasping and cracked. “Yes, sir.”

Vesemir’s smile grows. “Good boy.” Golden eyes glance over Jaskier’s shoulder. His voice holds firm. “My room, bedside locker, top shelf.” He’s distantly aware of the slight huff of breath that leaves Geralt, at the sound of him standing and striding further into the house. And the more steps he takes away from Jaskier, the colder the chill that washes over him and steals what’s left of his breath.

Worn hands wander over every stretch of skin Vesemir can find, mapping out his chest and the faint scars left behind over old jobs, over the stuttering heart inside of his chest that is threatening to burst through his ribcage at any moment. Eventually, Vesemir’s hands settle back on his hips, keeping him nested on his lap. Not that Jaskier would even dream of going anywhere else. His cock his swelling and when he tries to roll his hips against Vesemir’s still _very clothed_ thigh, firm hands keep him in place.

The Old Wolf clicks his tongue. “Be good,” he rumbles, a slight warning lilting through his words. And Jaskier shivers; something that shudders up his spine and shakes him.

He barely hears the quickened footsteps coming back into the living room. Vesemir grunts out a blunt _thank you_ before Jaskier’s eyes spot a bottle of lube caught in one of his hands. His throat bobs. He glances over his shoulder, watching Geralt stalk back over to the other side of the table, perching at the edge of his seat with his arms firmly pinned to his knees. Jaskier wets his lips.

Everything is too much. The sights and sounds blinding and deafening him, his skin bubbling into gooseflesh and every touch stealing his breath. Whatever Vesemir has in store for him, he won’t last through it. And he has a terrible suspicion that Vesemir won’t care at all. He’ll make this last – whatever _this_ is. Jaskier watches an ample amount of lube drip on to Vesemir’s palm, the man wetting his fingers with it as the other hand on his hip tightens. Fingertips press into his flesh. Gods alive, there better be marks left behind. He wants to leave this damn house feeling everything he could take from the Old Wolf—

Something does manage to slip through his lips, before his brain and jaw can catch him. “Not opposed to having an audience?” he lilts, eyes drifting between watching Vesemir’s golden hues and the storm that’s swirling within them, or the wet hand drifting behind him and skirting along the swell of his ass. Jaskier’s breath hitches.

Vesemir chuckles. “Geralt doesn’t mind. Do you lad?”

Geralt blinks, his mind finally catching up with the words directed at him. Jaskier watches his throat bob as he shakes his head, eyes wholly focused on the sight of his bare bird perched on Vesemir’s lap. His eyes stare at the hand kept still against the small of Jaskier’s back, fingers leaving wet drips of lube behind on his skin and absolutely _nowhere_ near where he needs it. Jaskier’s hips want to move. He wants to roll his hips on to Vesemir’s lap, reaching behind himself and catching the Old Wolf’s wrist, and bringing his hand to where he needs it. But for all the inquisitive and silent warning looks the elder has been giving him, Geralt’s eyes bear into his. _Be good_.

The hand on the small of his back drifts further down, only a small bit, until the tip of Vesemir’s index finger stretches out and brushes just above Jaskier’s hole. Vesemir’s voice rumbles out from the core of his chest, shaking through Jaskier as he struggles to catch his breath. “You know,” he murmurs, barely loud enough to lilt through the air, and shared between just the two of them, “I was there for his first.”

Jaskier’s brows knit together. He wants to close his eyes. Teetering on a knife’s edge, struggling to keep himself still and _good_ perched on Vesemir’s lap, willing the elder’s fingers to just move down a bit more, to _get inside of him_ , he can barely catch up with the man’s words. His mouth opens. Nothing helpful comes out, nothing at all recognisable as words. Vesemir seems to understand him all the same; speaking with a low timbre to his voice, lulling his words over Jaskier and watching them take effect.

“Doubt he even remembers her name. She was a pretty thing. Though, my pup has always had an eye for pretty things. When I heard he had a new bird resting on his shoulder, well, I just had to see for myself.” The tip of his finger catches the edge of Jaskier’s hole, just wet enough to press in slightly. And Jaskier’s breath stills in his throat. A plume of pleasure shudders through him, turning into a sharp whine as Vesemir’s hand drifts away again.

Every swear and curse he knows perches on his tongue. Things he would lash at Geralt during their teasing, knowing that the other man took some strange pleasure in keeping Jaskier on a crumbling edge for hours on end as he plied him apart with his fingers and mouth and cock. And it seems Vesemir is the same, if the glint in his eyes is anything to go by.

His tongue won’t be a whip. He’s trying to be good. Honestly. But he can’t help whatever else slips through his lips. “You could have gotten someone to get a picture of me,” he rasps, pushing his words out through his closing throat. “You still have your spies littered throughout the boroughs. You knew everything about me before I even set foot inside of your house.”

Vesemir offers him a small, knowing smile. “There are things that pictures can’t tell me, little bird.” The hand catching Jaskier’s hip tightens, and he hopes there are marks left behind. He wants to keep them there for as long as he can. And when he’s allowed to have Geralt again, when he is sprawled out in their own bed and Geralt prowls over him, he wants to already be aching.

At the first press of Vesemir’s finger inside of him, Jaskier whines. It’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough. The tip of Vesemir’s finger presses in and Jaskier can feel his core tightening. He tries to stay still. He tries to be _good_. But an arm slowly curls around Vesemir’s shoulders, threatening to tighten and hang on to the elder. The Old Wolf’s lips curl into a smirk. “Desperate little thing,” he rumbles, the sound coming deep from the core of his chest. And gods, it reminds Jaskier of Geralt. His arm tightens around the elder’s shoulders, trying to get himself closer to feel something from the other man, but Vesemir keeps him firmly away and pinned. The sharp scent of cologne and whiskey and weed coats the roof of his mouth and almost suffocates him.

Golden eyes wander over his shoulder again. “Is he always this keen, lad?”

There’s a short intake of breath. Geralt’s voice just adds to the sensations treading over Jaskier’s skin. “Yes, sir.”

Vesemir hums. His finger slips further into Jaskier, feeling the man stretch and give around him. His smirk only grows at the feeling of him trembling around him. He turns his head just enough to set his lips to the shell of Jaskier’s ear, letting his words lull into him. “I imagine these last few weeks have been hell for you, boy. Hmm?”

Mustering anything to say is getting difficult. Anything he wants to is getting stuck in his throat. But he manages. Jaskier swallows back a sharp whine when Vesemir’s finger pumps in and out of him; enough to start luring him close to the edge already, something he has been teetering on seemingly forever. “ _Hell_ ,” he can’t help but scoff, “yeah.”

The hand holding his hip tightens. The finger inside of him stills.

And for a terrible moment, Jaskier is left teetering once again. A whine slips out of him, and he tries to move back on to Vesemir’s hand, but the grip on his hip is too much. When he looks to the Old Wolf, he’s met by steeling golden eyes.

He’s waiting.

Geralt’s growl rumbles behind him. “ _Manners_ , darling.”

A tremor shivers up Jaskier’s spine. His tongue sits heavily in his mouth as he tries to gather something to say. He catches sight of Geralt out of the corner of his eye, regarding him for a moment. He’s always been an imposing-looking man; with fitted suits that show off how built he is, how he sits perched in chairs, using his size to lean forward and intimidate. Jaskier’s eyes wander to the hands firmly grasped together in front of Geralt; the white knuckles and the slight tremor. A wolf who has been told to _stay_ and _heel_.

Jaskier’s throat bobs. He turns to Vesemir, meeting the Old Wolf’s eye. “Yes, _sir_.”

There’s a glint in Vesemir’s eye. The corners of his lip twitches.

A whine catches in Jaskier’s throat at the press of another finger against Jaskier’s hole, just wet enough to ease the way. Jaskier’s eyes threaten to close. It’s too much and all he can do is be held in place and played with. A rumbling hum comes out of Vesemir’s throat. “I like to keep a firm leash on all of my pups, boy,” he says lowly, making sure that Jaskier can hear every single word that comes out of him. And Jaskier’s full attention is held. “That extends to my pup’s playthings; or the ones that insist on sticking around. Lambert has his Cat and Geralt has his Shrike.”

Jaskier’s throat bobs. Pleasure swells in waves, feeling Vesemir’s fingers delve in and out of him, luring him closer to the edge, only to still and let him be backed away from it again. A whine slips out of him, and some garbled attempt at Geralt’s name, possibly even another _sir_ , but nothing firm or recognisable. Vesemir watches him intently, letting his fingers pulse and stretch and play. “I know you’re not stupid, boy. I might be out here, at the edge of the world, but I know everything that happens in that city. I know every shipment in and out, every movement of people within the streets. I know who’s talking about who, and when the next up and coming lord or lady will try and grapple some power away from the other houses. You can’t even so much as sneeze in my city without me knowing about it.”

Gods, he knows. He knows the kind of shadow cast over the boroughs, even though Vesemir’s name has faded from the streets. Even then, people don’t even mention the Old Wolf, just in case by uttering his name, he’ll appear like a phantom.

And that man is doing what he likes with Jaskier, because who is he to refuse? Why would he want to be anywhere else? If he could spend the rest of his life here, perched on the Old Wolf’s lap with a simple summons from Geralt’s side, he _really_ wouldn’t object.

And it doesn’t seem Geralt has much of an objection either. Even though he can’t see him, he’s staying firmly out of Jaskier’s sight, Jaskier knows that the White Wolf is itching to touch himself. His knuckles paled and grasping at his own hands; he _wants_ to move. He wants to clear the room, snatch Jaskier from his elder’s lap and mount him there and then. It might have been a long three weeks for Jaskier, but he imagines it had some effect on the other man too.

Vesemir’s fingers curl, brushing along a spot inside of him that has Jaskier’s breath catching in his throat and his fingers curling into the fabric of Vesemir’s shirt. The Old Wolf hums. “Good boy,” he lulls, brushing the spot over and over again, making Jaskier’s cock twitch and spill a bead of cum on to his own bare thigh. Jaskier’s vision blurs. It’s the closest he’s been to the edge in weeks, and _gods_ he wants to come. The words almost spill out of his throat, but catch just in time for the elder to rumble something into his ear. “Here’s what’s going to happen, boy; I think you’ve learned your lesson now, haven’t you? Because I know that you’re a smart, good boy who now knows what he’s gotten himself into. Isn’t that right? I’d hate to have to punish you again, boy; really, I would. So I’m going to play with you for as long as I like, because you’re in _my_ home. And if you’re still being good for me, I’ll let you come.”

Jaskier groans. He tightens around Vesemir’s fingers, trembling around them as they curl and brush every stretch of Jaskier’s insides. They don’t stop, even when rumbled words shudder through him. Vesemir’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Or would you like my pup, hmm? He’s yours, after all. I imagine he’s desperate to have you again.”

He can see Geralt now, eyes glinting and lips pressed into a thin line. His regard and respect for Vesemir is the only thing keeping him firmly heeled at the other side of the table, perched on the edge of his own couch, leaning forward and watching him intently.

Vesemir’s lips brush his jaw, lightly and somewhat prickling because of the elder’s stubble. “If you’re good,” he lulls, “I’ll give you that choice; me or my pup.”

Jaskier’s lips are bitten and plump, barely able to bumble out anything recognisable as the fingers inside of him lure him closer to the edge again. He manages to meet Vesemir’s eye, holding them for a moment. “What, _fuck_ , what,” he tries, wincing at how difficult it is to push them through his throat, “what if I wanted you both?”

Something glints in Vesemir’s eye. Something sly and familiar – something he sees in Geralt’s eyes all the time when he lulls words against the man’s ear, just shared between the two of them in the private rooms or clubs or within their own home. Vesemir hums. “If you’re good, you can have whatever you like, boy.”

Jaskier nods blearily. He’ll be good. He’ll do whatever Vesemir says, because he’s _almost_ there. He just needs Vesemir’s fingers to brush against that spot again, edge him closer and let him lose himself. His fingers knot into the fabric of the man’s shirt, clutching on to him as he whines and groans.

The air is thick and heavy with scents. It’s just about suffocating. Every lungful he pulls in is too much, threatening to drown him if he’s not careful. Through the fog slowly lapping over him, he can make out Vesemir’s voice rumbling through his skin and muscles, settling into his bones. “I can’t imagine you’re always this tight. You’re clenching around my fingers better than any downtown whore. These three weeks have really set you back, boy, haven’t they? Have you missed it? Being stretched out and open for someone to fuck themselves into you? Have you missed having a cock in you? A desperate little thing like you going so long without it, I’m surprised you didn’t crack earlier.”

The hand on his hip is tight, fingers digging in and leaving marks behind that will ache tomorrow and in the days following. Jaskier grapples on to Vesemir’s shoulders, knotting his fingers into the back of his shirt and burying his moans into Vesemir’s neck. The elder wolf clicks his tongue. “Ah, ah, now boy, let us hear you,” he scolds, tightening the grip on Jaskier’s hip and stilling his fingers.

A whine rips through him. He’s close. So close that he can feel his cock aching and threatening to spill all over his own leg from where it’s pressed. He doesn’t have enough room to rub against anything, to roll his hips and grind. But he can’t. Something in the back of his mind hisses at him. He can’t because Vesemir didn’t say that he could. He needs to be good. He needs to be good so that he can come, and have Geralt again, and he’s learned his lesson, he’s _a good boy_ —

He whines, pulling his face away from Vesemir’s neck. “Can I come?” he whines, blearily searching for Vesemir’s face through his hazed vision. “I’ve been good, sir, _really_ good. I did what you asked. _Please_.”

Vesemir’s fingers delve inside of him, slowly pulling in and out, keeping him teetering. Golden eyes drift over his shoulder, regarding the White Wolf waiting at the other side of the table. “What do you think, lad? As the new head of the house; it’s your decision.”

 _That_...He can imagine Geralt blinking at the choice being handed to him. Jaskier waits. He tries to clamp down on any noise threatening to spill out of his throat and listen to what Geralt has to say, because _gods alive_ his skin is on fire and his entire body is trembling—

“He’s suffered enough.”

 _Thank all the fucking gods above_ —

Jaskier moans and clutches on to Vesemir tighter, feeling the elder’s fingers delve into him again, deliberate with their strokes as they seek out that spot inside of him that tightens his core and quickens his breath. “ _Yes, fuck,_ ” he groans, letting his eyes blink shut and waves of pleasure wash over him.

Vesemir’s thumb rubs against the stretched rim of his hole, sending a new thrum of pleasure through him with every stroke. He sets his lips to Jaskier’s ear. “What do you say, boy?”

“ _Thank you_ , sir,” he gasps, arching his neck just enough to look to Geralt. The wolf’s breath catches in his throat the second their eyes meet as he almost forgets his elder’s order to stay where he is. Jaskier swallows. “Thank you.”

Geralt lifts his chin. “You’re welcome, little bird.”

Vesemir’s fingers press into him, stretching him as much as he can and the tips brushing against the spot inside of him that has him chasing down release. A chuckle rumbles out of the Old Wolf. The hand on Jaskier’s hip loosens just enough to have Jaskier’s hips moving just an inch, enough to rub his cock against his leg and the fabric of Vesemir’s pants, rolling his hips down and on to the elder’s fingers. A warm rumbling voice lulls against the shell of his ear. “Be a good boy,” Vesemir rasps. “I can feel you trembling, boy. Be good and come for Geralt.”

It’s enough to send him over; his mouth stretched around a silent scream and his hips stuttering to a stop as he tightens around Vesemir’s fingers. It’s the first release he’s had in weeks, and one that almost steals him away from consciousness; he barely feels the splattering of cum against his bare thigh. Tears prickle through his clenched eyelids, threatening to spill down his cheeks. Distantly, he’s aware of a gentle thumb brushing them away. Soft, cooing words follow. Praises of how good he is, how well he’s done, how the wait is all over now.

His fist finally loosens around the fabric of Vesemir’s shirt as he slumps, heavily leaning into the elder’s chest and barely able to lift his head from his shoulder. Vesemir pulls his fingers away, and Jaskier winces. A low whine slips out of his throat. “Easy, bird,” Vesemir hums, “just get your bearings.”

Everything is more than an arm’s reach away from him. He knows that he’s in Vesemir’s house, perched on Vesemir’s lap with Geralt sitting and waiting nearby. But everything is so bright and loud. He burrows his nose into the hollow of Vesemir’s neck.

Beyond him, there are voices. He can feel one low and rumbling out of the core of Vesemir’s chest, almost shaking through Jaskier from where they’re pressed together. Geralt’s familiar timbre joins, drifting and lapping just above Jaskier’s head as he talks with the elder wolf.

He isn’t sure how much time passes. There’s a clock somewhere. He can hear the rhythmic ticking of it. But he’s not lucid enough to even try and count how many seconds and minutes pass before Vesemir pats the swell of his ass. The Old Wolf moves, just enough to straighten in his seat, without jostling Jaskier too much. But his numbing fingers still try and grasp on to whatever he can of the Old Wolf. Vesemir chuckles. “Poor little bird,” he hums, gently messaging and petting the small of his back and his ass. “What do you think, pretty thing? Can you continue? I’m sure Geralt would like to get his own release too.”

 _Geralt_. Jaskier barely musters enough energy to come out of his burrow from Vesemir’s neck and crane his neck just enough to seek out the other man. Geralt’s eyes catch his and Jaskier whines. One heavy arm falls away from Vesemir’s shoulders and stretches out, hand reaching for Geralt. 

The man looks at Jaskier’s hand, flinching in his seat for a moment before catching himself. He turns to look at Vesemir, jaw clenching and throat bobbing.

Vesemir nods.

Geralt is with him in seconds, crossing the room in a matter of strides.

Jaskier’s breath catches the second the other man sets his hands on him; familiar fingers threading through his hair and a hand catching his neck, pulling him back just enough to lure him into a kiss. It’s messy and desperate and Jaskier blearily catches the front of Geralt’s shirt, keeping him close and _right here_ , but eventually he has to breathe.

His fingers grasp what he can of the front of Geralt’s shirt, making sure that the other man can’t wander too far away from him. He’s been without Geralt for three weeks. He isn’t prepared to lose him again, especially now when his skin is on fire and his core is churning.

He almost cries when Geralt’s lips pull away from him, but he doesn’t wander far. He looks to the Old Wolf, still proudly perched in his chair and watching with a faint smile. He nods, waving dismissively to Jaskier.

Geralt moves him. He isn’t able to move himself. If he put any weight on to his legs, they may just rumble underneath him. Firm hands catch his hips and hoist him up, planting his bared feet on to the polished wooden floor beneath him. A hand leaves, just to press against the small of Jaskier’s back and bend him over Vesemir’s lap, face just a breath away from the Old Wolf’s.

Jaskier’s arms stretch out in front of him; his fingers press into the leather of the arm rest, arms bracing and holding him up. His legs tremble, wobbling underneath him, and if it weren’t for the firm hands catching his hips, he would have slumped back against the Old Wolf’s chest.

Vesemir slumps slightly on his throne, perching his temple on his fist and regarding Jaskier for a moment. He reaches out and letting the tips of his fingers slowly drift over the man’s face. Mapping and chartering everything from his temples to his cheekbones to his jaw. Nose, lips, and catching his chin before Jaskier can look away. Vesemir’s eyes glint. “Pretty little thing,” he lulls, letting his words wash over the bird in front of him. Something in the Wolf’s eyes changes, just for a brief second. “I do hope that you’re just as good as your job. I hear stories of the Shrike and all of the bodies perched on the hedge’s spikes.”

The harsh sound of a zipper being undone catches his attention for a moment. His throat threatens to close. Clothes rustle and Geralt pulls him back against him, resting the head of his hard and leaking cock against Jaskier’s hole. And the two fingers Vesemir plied him with are just enough, but not ideal. Though, he can’t imagine Geralt gifting any more time to do anything else other than fuck into the body in front of him.

Vesemir lifts Jaskier’s chin. “Are you?” he asks again, in a tone of voice that would suggest that he doesn’t like to repeat himself. “I’ve heard a lot of whispers from the boroughs telling me how effective you are at your job. And I imagine they weren’t talking about your nights wandering downtown’s streets.”

Geralt isn’t moving. He isn’t moving _and Jaskier fucking hates it_. He swallows, mustering enough words to push out through his clenched jaw. “I am,” he rasps, throat scratched and dry. “I kill. I’m fucking good at it.”

A sharp chuckle bursts from Vesemir. “Excellent,” he rumbles, looking over Jaskier’s head and nodding.

Geralt pushes into him, and it’s a struggle not to come there and then. Jaskier’s eyes close and his mouth stretches open, a silent groan and some attempt at Geralt’s name trying it’s best to sound. What he can hear is Geralt, grunting sharply as his hands tighten on Jaskier’s hips and he pulls the man back on to him.

Gods, it’s good. It’s good and he’s forgotten what it’s like to have Geralt inside of him. There isn’t a stretch of him that’s not quivering around Geralt’s dick, clenching down around him. Geralt’s hips lie flush against his ass, still for a moment as the other man catches his breath.

Vesemir’s gaze burrows into the core of him. It’s difficult to look away, when his eyes sting and want to close because the pleasure washing over him is too much. The first roll of Geralt’s hips against his own has his breath thinning and a groan punched out of him. Geralt’s hands feel different grasping his hips; the familiar tight grip on them as he moves Jaskier to where he likes, where it’ll feel good for the both of them, where he _knows_ he’ll be able to lure Jaskier over the edge of release again.

Vesemir brushes his knuckles against Jaskier’s cheek, eyes lowering to watch his lips stretch around gasps and groans. Fingers trail down along his skin until his thumb catches the corners of his lips. Jaskier moans wetly. His grip on the chair’s arms tightens until he can’t feel his fingertips anymore.

Geralt’s hips snap against his, hands pulling him back on to every thrust and wringing every breath out of him. Vesemir lifts his chin. “I think, all things considered,” he rumbles, letting the words wash over Jaskier’s face, “I can humour you for tonight. You’ve been remarkably well-behaved in my home.”

 _Gods_. Vesemir’s fingers slip away from him and he struggles not to whine. There’s a chill left behind on his skin from the absence, though it’s quickly chased away when Jaskier’s eyes drop to the elder’s lap.

Nimble fingers unlatch the buckle and tie of Vesemir’s belt and the zip of his pants. Jaskier’s mouth dries at the sight of the elder pulling himself out, already hard and ruddy, giving himself a few cursory strokes before a hand reaches to Jaskier’s face. He gentles the back of his knuckles against the ridge of Jaskier’s cheekbones, feeling him quiver and shake. The thrusts behind him have slowed, Geralt almost bending over his back as a familiar strong arm curls around his abdomen and holds him close.

The corners of Vesemir’s lips twitch. “Be a good boy,” he murmurs, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and guiding him down.

A moan catches in his throat. He has just enough time to adjusts his arms into something more comfortable before his mouth is set on the elder’s cock. He lavishes as much attention on to it as he’s able to; mind spinning and his skin sparking with every brush of Geralt’s clothes against it. There’s a rumbling moan above him. Whether it’s from Vesemir or Geralt, he’s not sure. But the thought of either of them – or _both_ – looking down at him, watching his lips lave kisses and licks along the length of Vesemir’s cock, it’s just another thing fizzling through his body and having him on edge.

His hips roll back on to Geralt’s, the head of the man’s cock brushing that spot inside of him that has him moaning wetly. The fingers in his hair tighten, as does the arm slung around his waist. “Be good, darling,” Geralt rumbles, the words shaking through his spine and ribcage.

He needs to come. His cock is red and ruddy and starting to leak again; and he knows the second he pulls his hand away to go and touch himself, all of this will be ripped away from him. And the thought of it sours his tongue.

Vesemir shifts slightly above him, relaxing back into his chair and guiding Jaskier’s mouth elsewhere. “If you want to come, little bird,” he says, ever perceptive, “then you have to take care of a few things first.”

His mouth waters. A musky scent coats the roof of his mouth and almost smothers him, joined with the faint trace of cologne and whiskey. Jaskier lavishes a few last wet kisses just below the head of Vesemir’s cock before he sets his lips around the head, sucking on it as best as he’s able. His cheeks hollow, and even before the elder can slide into him, his throat begins to bob and clench.

There’s a rumbling groan behind him. Slowly, Geralt’s hips start moving again; the slow drag of his cock along Jaskier’s trembling and clenching walls being almost too much. The last hand on his hip tightens, holding him in place as Geralt rights himself, setting his feet firmly into the ground as he snaps his hips against the swell of Jaskier’s ass.

Vesemir’s hand settles at the back of his head, slowly guiding him down. His lips purse, clenching around the man’s length as tries to will his throat open. Vesemir groans above him, something primal and rumbling. “Good boy,” he murmurs. His other hand settles at the base of his cock, squeezing and guiding as Jaskier tries to push further down. “That’s it, little bird. Open that throat for me.”

A moan fights its way up and around Vesemir’s cock. The head brushes the back of his throat, and his eyes start to water. Jaskier’s mouth is as dangerous as any blade or bullet he can carry with him. His mouth has kept him alive for longer than any god should have allowed him to be. And even with Geralt, it’s rare that he finds himself overwhelmed. Learning to take Geralt is every sort of way took time – nights spent alone together, learning bodies and the way certain touches and kisses lured the right kind of sounds out of the other.

Vesemir’s hips lift, pressing his cock further in. Jaskier sucks as best as he can, trying to hollow his cheeks and breathe through his nose. But even then, he’s just a wet, tight mouth for Vesemir to still and rock himself into. And the image and thought of that sends a wave of pleasure trembling through him.

He tightens around Geralt, luring a tight moan out of the other man. His thrusts are hard and snap against him; the man just seeking his pleasure and nothing more. Jaskier’s three weeks were his too. Not that they had to be. Geralt could have wandered downtown and found himself another pretty songbird to spend a few hours with. But the idea of it sours Jaskier’s tongue and turns Geralt’s stomach. They’re entwined now, and it’s terrifying.

Vesemir’s touch turns gentle; fingers carding and combing through his hair while his hips lift and rock, pushing himself in and out of the intoxicating wet heat surrounding him. Jaskier wishes he could see the elder’s eyes. He wants to watch them cloud over and grow intense as Jaskier lures him to the edge.

 _Maybe another time_.

Vesemir’s head leans back against his chair, eyes almost closed as Jaskier sucks and holds him. “Such a perfect little thing,” he murmurs towards the ceiling. “If you weren’t such a brilliant Shrike, you’d be a wonderful bed-warmer.” Vesemir lets his head fall forward, almost glassy eyes watching Jaskier’s head buried on his lap, moving up and down as he chokes and splutters around the man’s cock. “When I heard my pup had found himself a pretty bird, I imagined something locked in a cage. Kept to a bed, always wet and open for him. _Fuck_ , that’s it, boy, what a _lovely_ mouth.”

Geralt’s hand tightens on Jaskier’s hips. His head hangs, eyes watching his cock push in and out of the other man, feeling release start to chase him down. Jaskier is tight. He’s tight and wet and clenching down on him with every thrust. Even through the dim glowing light of the room, he can see what marks are starting to bloom around his hips from where they’ve been grabbed. It quickens his thrusts, his core beginning to churn and tighten.

Jaskier bobs his head as best as he can, wetly sucking Vesemir’s cock and moaning around it. He manages a few, dropping down and letting his nose press against the base.

Fingers curl through his hair again, grabbing on and pulling him up. Vesemir’s cock slips out of him, a thin string of spit and precum still connecting his mouth to it. Jaskier whines; throat scratching and beginning to clamp. Vesemir’s grip on his hair tightens. He speaks. His words aren’t directed at him, but he hears them and lets them sink through his skin and bury into his bones. He moans around nothing, clenching down on Geralt’s cock driving in and out of him.

Vesemir’s voice is a low and thunderous thing. “In or on him, lad?”

Geralt grunts, face almost twisting as his hips quicken. “ _In_ ,” he chokes out, chasing down his own release, thinking of flooding the body in front of him and watching it drip out through Jaskier’s stretched out hole. He forces his eyes open. He wants – _needs_ – to watch. Meeting his elder’s eyes, Geralt moans. “In, in him, please.”

Jaskier is pushed back on to the man’s cock, moaning around it as Vesemir’s hips begin to lift and press further into him. He hollows his mouth and cheeks as best as he can, tongue laving the underside before the fingers in his hair tighten almost to the point of pain. Vesemir floods his mouth with a choked groan, hips stilling as Jaskier swallows around him.

It’s too much, pressing the back of his throat and making him gag. The grip on his hair loosens slightly, Vesemir pulling him up until only the head is left caught between tight pursed lips. Jaskier swallows what he can, letting the taste of Vesemir sit on his tongue and overtake him.

Geralt’s groan is loud and tight as his hips still against the swell of Jaskier’s ass, finally coming after three weeks of self-imposed chastity. And Jaskier feels how much he’s flooded, almost leaking around the other man as Geralt’s thumb drifts around the rim of his hole, gently pressing in and feeling how wet he is.

His skin is on fire, his blood scalding and heating him as he’s pulled away from Vesemir. He somehow clambers up slightly, back to his position of being held directly in front of the elder. Golden eyes, somewhat dimmed, take him in, looking over every stretch of flushed skin he can find until his gaze eventually settles on Jaskier’s cock.

Vesemir’s lips purse. “You’ve done brilliantly, my boy,” he lulls, reaching forward and curling his fingers around Jaskier’s length. The second they close around him, a firm circle to roll his hips into, he comes. It’s almost dry, with just a thin dribble of cum leaking out of him and gathering on Vesemir’s palm as he drifts away. He’s sensitive. Even as Geralt pulls away, his cock dragging out of him followed by a trail of cum, he whines. His fingers tighten into the plush leather of Vesemir’s chair.

The elder reaches up, his clean fingers dusting along Jaskier’s cheek. “Brilliant boy,” he praises, watching a pleased tremor shake through Jaskier’s body. “So good.”

He’s teetering. His legs tremble as he struggles to keep himself upright. A familiar steady arm curls around his middle and hauls him back, gently bundling him against a firm chest. Jaskier’s head rolls back, his nose instinctively finding the crook of Geralt’s neck and breathing in as much of his scent as he can.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, his mind drifting above them as Geralt murmurs praises along the ridge of his jaw, alongside chaste kisses. Vesemir fixes himself, returning to the near-perfect and put-together image he presented when his guests first came through the door. Geralt’s job is more difficult, trying to right himself while leading a still _very bare_ Jaskier back towards the couch. His skin is soaked with sweat and he can still taste the elder on his tongue. Geralt sits them down, gathering Jaskier to lie along his lap as he threads his fingers through the man’s hair, leaning down for a long and languid kiss.

What he doesn’t miss is the way Geralt’s tongue pries his lips apart, meeting his own tongue and tasting whatever is left on it with a rumbling moan. He’s tired; too tired to try and reach up, grapple Geralt closer and rut against him for another round. The idea of it lures him further down into sleep.

There’s rustling somewhere else in the room. “Stay here for as long as you want,” Vesemir grunts as he stands, stretching out his neck and shoulders as he gathers his emptied whiskey glass and metal tin of blunts. “You know where the rooms are.”

Geralt hums. “Thank you, sir.”

Vesemir waves a hand, trudging somewhere else into the house. When the elder leaves, the quietness that’s left behind is deafening. Jaskier is still lingering in it, not quite asleep but not quite awake, somewhere in limbo. He can feel the gentle run of Geralt’s fingers through his hair, his other hand catching one of Jaskier’s and linking their fingers together.

Every breath he takes is a lungful of their joined scent – something he went weeks without.

 _Never again_. He came to that conclusion the following day after his sentence. And every day since then had been torture.

He manages to pry his eyes open, blearily making out Geralt above him, slouched against the couch and almost drifting off to sleep himself. Maybe they won’t make it to one of the – presumably – many bedrooms littered throughout the house. Maybe he’ll just be strewn off along this couch with Geralt, hoping to every god he can remember the name of that a passing guard won’t wander in on some patrol. The guards of Geralt’s house know what a lock door means at the very least.

“You did well,” Geralt murmurs above him, voice holding a deep timbre. Jaskier blinks blearily at him, managing to just make out his words. The other man looks down, golden eyes soft and fond. “I’m proud of you.”

A tired laugh chuffs out of him. “A strange thing to be proud of.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “I’m proud that you had enough perseverance; that you were able to prove to him that you are more than you seem.”

Something strange blooms within his chest. His eyes flutter closed again, eyelids far too heavy to try and keep open forever. Sleep pulls at him with every minute that passes; not helped at all by the gentle lull of Geralt’s voice. “Sleep now,” he rumbles, feeling Jaskier grow heavier and heavier. “We’ll head home in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it took way longer than I expected and I had two major meltdowns along the way, but it's out ^L^ 
> 
> I'm meant to be writing a historical article for work, but I did this instead. Sorry, Work. 
> 
> A following fic detailing Lambert's punishment may make an appearance. But I tend to promise things and then my brain goes "no :)" so take that promise with a heap of salt x

**Author's Note:**

> 👀 
> 
> (Vesemir and the Dinner will be in the second chapter because it is late and I am tired 😂 Have I spoiled some of the next chapter with some of the tags? Yes. But did I do it now just so I didn't have to upload tomorrow's chapter AND redo my tags? Absolutely.)
> 
> (We'll also see a cheeky guest appearance from Aiden/Lambert to discuss what it is Vesemir has asked Aiden to do 😉)
> 
> tumblrs  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter  
> @eyesupmarksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated!


End file.
